


Down will Fall Baby, Cradle and All

by ilokheimsins



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: John is not wee okay, M/M, Mpreg, There are children giving strange advice because why not, hand-wavey science induced pregnancy because reasons, suuuuuper dub-con for a bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilokheimsins/pseuds/ilokheimsins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is kidnapped in the middle of Bane’s occupation of Gotham.  And he really doesn’t remember all of it, but what he does remember makes him grit his teeth and want to bash his head against the nearest wall.  It doesn’t help any that he’s suddenly having the urge to puke his guts out every morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an mpreg fic, so if that squicks you, this probably isn't ideal. It's not super explicit, more hand wavey because I couldn't really come up with a reasonable way to induce the pregnancy. And Dr. Crane is a catch all in the land of mad science.
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!
> 
> This is unbetaed.

            John has a…distrust, shall we say, of doctors.  Not that he doesn’t think doctors are brilliant.  He does.  Really.  They distribute all that stuff that keeps the St. Swithins’ kids from hacking their lungs out.  Penicillin or something.  But right now isn’t a great time to look for a doctor, especially since those handy pieces of paper with their degrees, yeah, those are being used as firewood right now.

 

But yeah, doctors.  John’s not a big fan of them.  Which is why he’s currently staring down at his toilet, watching the water swirl his latest upchuck-fest away instead of sitting in a reception room at a doctor’s office.  It’s odd, to say the least.  John hasn’t been sick since Martina brought her kid’s flu into the precinct a while back.  He’s usually pretty good with staying healthy.

 

            He stares at the toilet for a few more minutes before he’s sure that his stomach is willing to stay in place.  John splashes his face with water and scrubs a hand through his hair until it looks sort of in place.  Then he grabs his toothbrush and hops around his tiny little studio apartment, brushing his teeth and pulling on his pants simultaneously.  John has got that shit down to an art.

 

            It only takes him a few more minutes to get ready to head over to St. Swithins, where he’s mobbed by kids on all sides and a grateful looking Father Reilly.  John scoops a few of the younger kids into his arms and then navigates his way out onto the basketball court in the back, trailing kids left and right.

 

            “So, what’s up?”

 

            “Remi is so convinced that Bane was around here,” Shia whispers conspiratorially after looking around.  Several heads bob in agreement.

 

            “Bane,” John says, “Gotham’s terrorist.  Big guy, bald, mask thing.”

 

            Again, several heads nod.

 

            “Why would Bane come and check out an orphanage?”

 

            “He’s a terrorist,” Louie says from the back, “Who knows why he does why he does.”

 

            John agrees, “But seriously, think about it.  What would he need to come to an orphanage for?”

 

            “Cause we’re kids.  Kids are great hostages.”

 

            “Yeah, normal kids, you guys are like hellspawn,” John grins as several small fists hit him playfully and the sound of indignant replies reaches his ears.

 

            “But is it true?” Mina presses forward, “Did you really meet Bane?”

 

            John tenses up for a moment.  Mina looks up at him, earnest and waiting.  The other kids look awestruck, as if Bane were some superstar instead of a super terrorist.  John clenches his teeth and takes a deep breath through his nose and says,

 

            “No.”

 

***

 

            “Fuck you,” John spits out, thrashing against the bearded man, Bartholomew or something, pinning him to the surprisingly soft futon thing laid out on the ground.

 

            Bartholomew gives a world-weary sigh, as if John were some child throwing a tantrum, and presses John’s head further, exposing his neck.  John stills when he feels the cool tip of a needle pressing against the taut skin of his neck.  When Bartholomew applies a little more pressure, John starts up his fight again, bucking upwards in an attempt to dislodge the other man.  It only serves to send Bartholomew forward and the needle into his neck.

 

            John hisses as the needle slides past muscle and there’s the torturous few seconds as the needle is held there and then there’s the sensation of it sliding out.  Bartholomew releases John and steps off the bed, tapping the needle with an expert hand.  He slides it into a cover and then leaves.  It takes John a few seconds to make sure that he isn’t melting from the inside or dying of some magic disease and when he does he sits up and yells at the retreating form.

 

            “Yeah, well fuck you too Bartholomew!”

 

            A throaty chuckle comes from somewhere behind John and he spins around, scrambling to his feet.

 

            “His name is Barsad.  But you will learn.”

 

            John backs up until he knocks into a desk.  The shadows on the other end of the room seem to ripple and then out steps Bane.  Huge, massive, terrorist Bane.  John fumbles blindly around on the desk and his fingers catch on the hilt of a blade.  He swings it up and points it at Bane.

 

            “I’ll use this, don’t think I fucking won’t,” John threatens, but even to him, his voice sounds thin and shaky.

 

            “Robin...John…Blake,” Bane purrs, taking a step forward with each word, “It is good of you to join me.”

 

            “I haven’t joined you,” John spits out, “Your fucking henchmen kidnapped me.  If my landlord sees what they did to my apartment there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

 

            Bane cocks his head to the side thoughtfully.  He studies John, eyes glittering with fondness?  Adoration?  No, fuck you, John is not adorable.  John knows krav maga and muay thai and all that shit.  John is perfectly capable of fucking people’s shit up as long as they aren’t super terrorists.

 

            Bane advances another step and John snaps back to reality, tightening his grip on the knife.  It doesn’t deter Bane from coming closer and John finds himself skittering down the length of the desk in order to maintain distance between them.

 

            “I have no wish to hurt you,” Bane rumbles, “If you would comply.”

 

            “Like hell I’m gonna buy that,” John growls, “You sent some of my friends out to Crane’s kangaroo court and they’re dead.  Bloated and bleeding in the morgue or ice cubes under the bridge.  Why the hell shouldn’t I be the same?”

 

            Bane doesn’t answer.  He swings an arm for John, who ducks and then gets the breath knocked out of him as Bane’s other hand comes out of nowhere and slings John up into the air.  The knife falls from John’s fingers, clattering to the ground.  Bane carts John back to the futon and lays him out, pressing the grill of his mask to John’s neck.

 

            “Get the fuck off,” John shouts, swinging his fist towards Bane’s neck.  He twists it to the side at the last second, hoping to catch Bane off guard, but Bane simply meets his fist with his palm.  He curls his hand around John’s and holds it there.

 

            “Breathe, habibi,” Bane murmurs.  John is about to tell him that there’s no way in hell he’s going to just lay here and fucking breathe when the smell hits him.  It’s sandalwood and musk and heat and earthy and it makes him dizzy.  His vision is hazy, but he can sort of make out this trail of smoke in the corner.  And oh, incense.  Then suddenly he’s too hot.  It’s hot everywhere, his arms, his legs, his stomach.  The heat itches and burns inside and John gasps, trying to cool himself with more air, instead inhaling more of the smoke.  He thrashes and bucks, groaning when his covered dick brushes against Bane’s massive thigh.

 

            Bane waits patiently until John’s worked himself into a frenzy, rutting and begging and pleading for something he can’t figure out.  And then Bane presses his mask to the underside of John’s chin and breathes out.  The cool sensation sends sparks flying across John’s skin and he cries out, arching upwards.  Bane chuckles, low and deep, and the vibrations make John shiver.

 

            And then Bane pulls back and John pants, dazed.  When Bane pets a hand down his thigh, John practically tears his clothes off because they’re in the goddamn way.  Bane presses his thumb down onto John’s bottom lip and John takes it into his mouth eagerly.  He laps and sucks at it, tasting the whorls of Bane’s thumbprint.  Somehow, while sucking obscenely at Bane’s thumb, John manages to wrestle his clothes off and Bane hisses approvingly.

 

            “Habibi,” He says and the tone is something John would call reverent if he were in a clearer state of mind.

 

            But as it is, all John can do is shudder and let Bane press him back down into the futon.  He clutches at Bane’s shoulders and groans when the cold metal of the mask touches onto his chest.  Bane trails down further and further and then stops, breathing slow and steady above John’s cock.

 

            John presses his hips upwards but Bane backs away and then pins John into place with his arm.  A strangled groan of frustration leaves John and he finds that he has enough presence of mind to sort of prop himself up on his elbows and look down at Bane.  His vision is really hazy around the edges, but Bane is crystal clear, laser focused even.  John can see the muscle coiled there, waiting and he swallows a moan.

 

            “What is it that you wish for?” Bane is quiet, the hiss of the mask nearly obscuring the words but to John the sound is thunder, racing through his head.

 

            “Just, please,” He begs, “Please, fuck, something, I don’t care, anything.”

 

            Bane gives a pleased chuckle and runs his hands down John’s thigh and over the curve of John’s arse.  He sweeps his thumb over John’s hole and John keens, low and raspy, shoving back.  Bane leans forward and presses his mask to John’s pebbled nipple, breathing slowly.  He works his hand, stroking gently over John’s perineum.

 

            “Habibi,” Bane says, reverence again in his tone.  He applies a bit more pressure on John’s chest and then slides upwards until he reaches the curve of John’s jaw.

 

            “Little bird,” The rasp of the mask nearly covers his words, “You will look beautiful when you are round with child.”

 

            John nods frantically and clutches at the back of Bane’s neck.  He drags his lips over Bane’s mask and across his cheek before stopping at his ear and murmuring, “Yes.”

 

***

 

            It’s light out when John shoots up out of the bed.  It takes him a second to recognize where he is.  Futon, solid oak desk in the corner, this isn’t John’s crap studio apartment.  This is Bane’s room, in the middle of god knows where.  John carefully creeps out of the futon and drags on the nearest set of clothes on, which happen to be a relatively well-fitting pair of cargo pants and an oversized hoodie.  He tiptoes over to the window and pushes it open slowly, freezing when it squeaks.

 

            When no one comes bursting into the room, guns a-blazing, to make sure John isn’t trying to escape, he pushes it further and looks out.  He’s on the fourth floor of a relatively nice building, if the number of windows below him is anything to go by.  There’s a pipe right next to the window and John tugs it roughly, testing it.  Then he steels himself and swings himself out of the window, planting his feet firmly on the side of the building, hands gripping white knuckled on the pipe.

 

            “Thank fuck Havers was so obsessed with scaling walls,” John mutters before he begins a slow descent.  One foot, then a hand, then the other foot, then the other hand.  It’s slow going and John is hyper alert, trying to judge if someone is going to come poking their head out the window and alert everyone else.  He works a little faster and lets out a sigh of relief when his feet land in the snow.

 

            John pulls up his hood and darts a look in all directions before dashing off in the direction of the nearest alleyway.  The first place he goes that day, after showering and shaving and making himself more presentable than nearly every single person on his way home, is St. Swithins, where he sits with the kids and tells them about Batman.

 

***

 

            It only occurs to John, later, as he’s bidding Father Reilly goodbye, that Mina’s question is odd.  He hasn’t told anyone about Bane, not even the commissioner, which he does feel guilty about, he really does.  He just can’t bring himself to tell Gordon yet.  And then there are the kids who claim they keep seeing Bane lurking about like some specter.

 

            There’s a prickly feeling on John’s neck as he leaves St. Swithins, like he’s being watched very carefully, but every time he chances a glance behind him, the feeling vanishes.  It bothers John and he takes a few more detours on his way home.  People watch him as he darts across open plazas and alleyways, looking hungrily at his coat, which isn’t worn or burnt at the edges.  John clenches his teeth together and remembers that this is what Bane has reduced Gotham to.

 

            A roiling in his stomach alerts him to the fact that his lunch is about to make a reappearance and he settles himself into a sprint.  Puking in an alleyway with people around him waiting for a moment of weakness isn’t a stellar idea.  So John barrels gracelessly down several skinnier alleys between buildings and then clangs up the fire escape leading to his apartment.  He barely makes it to the toilet before his stomach heaves and he’s groaning in disgust.

 

            “Fuck,” He says weakly, when his stomach finally settles back down.  A doctor would probably be a good idea, but John isn’t in the mood to have some quack poke at him, especially in times like these.  So he sticks it out.  And sticks it out.

 

            And sticks it out.  By the end of the next week, he’s seriously giving thought to finding a doctor.  Because the puking has gotten more and more frequent and beyond hugging the porcelain goddess, John hasn’t had any other signs of sickness and the only other really odd thing is his sudden affinity for interesting food combinations.

 

            “Maybe you’re pregnant,” Shia says as she scratches a chalk bat into the basketball court.

 

            John chokes out a strangled laugh and tells her that he’s a guy and guys don’t get pregnant.  Shia just looks at him and scoffs, “Yeah, and Ramirez isn’t a Time Lord.”

 

            “Why would Ramirez be a time lord?  You’ve been watching too much Dr. Who,” John tosses back.

 

            “Ten is dreamy,” Shia says, shooting John a look when he makes to protest that Ten’s looks are not what he was on about.

 

            “But where Ramirez is, disaster follows right?  Like he’s here and now we’ve got a super terrorist,” Shia says in a matter of fact manner.

 

            “Uh, no,” John shakes his head, “Ramirez was here long before Bane.  If Ramirez really did bring disaster, wouldn’t it have happened earlier? Like, I dunno, when he was born?  Besides, Ramirez is my partner and as much as I think the guy could tone down the aftershave, he’s a decent guy.”

 

            “Exactly,” Shia nods, as if John has affirmed every single point, “Time lords are time lords, John.  Time lords don’t follow the right timelines.  How do you know Ramirez hasn’t been jumping back and forth while you’re not looking?  Also, time lords are regenerated, not born.  And third, you’re a companion; of course you think his aftershave is awful.  There’s always something.”

 

            John just stares, agape.

 

            “So,” Shia concludes, “Maybe you are pregnant.”

 

            “I have no idea how you got back there,” John answers truthfully.

 

            “I’m a kid,” Shia grins, big and bright, “We’re not supposed to make sense.”

 

***

 

            As much as John thinks Shia is talking a bunch of weirdness, he’s willing to accept any explanation at this point.  Because he just wants his stomach to behave and not roll as soon as the smell of something burning hits his nose.  He wants to not crave weird combinations like chocolate and Mrs. Fon’s stir fry, which just sounds weird.  But most of all he wants to clean out his fridge because the thing in the back?  It looks like it’s about to come alive.  Unfortunately, the smell of the week (probably months, actually) old takeout in the fridge makes him rush for the bathroom before he can even attempt to do so.  And if the hurling doesn’t stop, he wants to at least know why his stomach has started a sudden crusade against him.

 

            So maybe John doesn’t feel incredibly guilty about sneaking into one of the abandoned pharmacies and swiping something like twenty pregnancy tests off the shelves, making sure to choose a handful of varieties.  He does, however, feel incredibly ridiculous standing in the bathtub and trying to pee onto seven different sticks at once.  But somehow, he manages it and shoves all the tests back into their individual little covers because his bathroom is grimy enough and it doesn’t need piss added to however many unidentifiable weird things there are coating everything.  There’s a reason John wears slippers in the bathroom.

 

John lines the tests up carefully on the toilet cover.  Then he cranks the hot water on and sprays everything with the detachable (not an actual design feature, but John slipped one day and accidentally pulled the showerhead with him) showerhead around until he’s satisfied that the tub is mostly clean.  Then he putters around his room, shoving things this way and that until he’s satisfied that enough minutes have passed.

 

            John bangs his shin on the orange crate doubling as a shelf next to his mattress in his haste to get to the bathroom.  He winces at the brief flare of pain and slows down, picking his way carefully around the stuff scattered everywhere.  John grabs the tests and tosses them into the sink one after the other as he reads them.  As the last one clatters into the sink, John steps out of the bathroom and flumps down fast first onto his bed.  He turns his head to the side, watching the weak sunlight filter through his crappy curtains and thinks that maybe Shia is magical.  Because, seriously?  John is pregnant; seven different pregnancy tests said so.

 

            “Fuck.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is so awkward why. More Barsad and Blake sass, Bane to come.
> 
> Thanks to drwhoctopus for staying up and being my sounding board.

            John has no idea what he’s going to do.  Absolutely none.  It’s not really like he can simply march up to Bane and throttle the man while shouting obscenities at him. First off, John’s pretty sure that he wouldn’t be able to find Bane.  Secondly, if John were to find Bane, he’s almost a hundred percent sure that Bane would not be amenable to being yelled at by the guy he knocked up.  Which brings John back to the main point of his problem.

 

            He’s pregnant.  For a while there, all he did was lift his shirt up and pull a Bella Swan, turning from side to side and staring at his stomach.  (Too much Twilight, but for some reason, the St. Swithins kids love the movies).  The second thing he did was sit down on his bed and think about all the possible ways this could go wrong, like in Alien or a million other movie things.  (This is around when John thinks he’s going to start getting kid-friendly movies for the St. Swithins kids).

 

            The third thing John does is go out onto his fire escape and yell at the world, obscenities and “give me back my fucking life, you fucking fucker” echoing down the alleyway.  And then John wanders back to the bathroom to check the tests again.  Just in case.  Maybe he read them wrong and the little plus signs mean negative.  Or something.  But nope.  After reading the boxes repeatedly and staring at the stark little signs, John concludes that he is not hallucinating and that he is going to put a bullet through Bane’s head.

 

            It takes him another hour or so, but the realization does finally hit him.  He’s in the middle of tossing together something vaguely healthy and less than appealing when he drops his spatula.

           

            “Wait, how,” He says.  And then he smacks himself.  Because that really should have been the first question he asked.  He takes a while to just sit there and think it over.  Eventually he narrows it down to two possible things:  the needle and the smoke.  Then he tosses both ideas out the window and does what he always does when he needs to just sit and be coddled a bit.

 

            John heads over to Mrs. Fon’s apartment.  Mrs. Fon is a nice old lady, moved in a few months ago, just before the occupation started.  She’s a bit on the odd side but she makes a killer soup.  John knocks on her apartment, waiting patiently as the voice cursing him out in Chinese comes closer before the door creaks open a little.  Mrs. Fon peeks out from her apartment and practically glows when she sees who it is.  The door shuts in John’s face and he can hear the clicks as she undoes the locks.

 

            “Come in,” She says and waves John in.

 

            “I’m pregnant,” John says and then shuts his mouth and wonders when he stopped being able to control his body.

 

            Mrs. Fon just looks at him and tsks, “You see, I told you, you cannot just say you will marry anyone who says he will love you.”  John’s pretty sure Mrs. Fon is under the delusion that John’s her daughter or niece.

 

            She waggles a disapproving finger at him and then hobbles into her kitchen, where she pulls out a bag of ginger.

 

            “Sit, sit,” She says, “I will make you ginger and then everything will go away.”

 

            “I can’t just eat it?”

 

            Mrs. Fon gives him a disapproving look and John sits.  He watches as she tosses some ginger into a pot and turns the heat all the way up.  How she still has electricity is beyond John, but hey, he’s not going to complain.  John gets bored a few moments later and picks at the tablecloth absently.  He goes back to contemplating the fact that he’s pregnant.

 

            Genetic impossibility.  Right there.  Step right up, freak show central.

 

            “Eat,” Mrs. Fon says.  She shoves a bowl of steaming ginger soup at John and hands him a spoon.

 

            John obediently spoons the soup into his mouth, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  He doesn’t have to wait long.

 

            “Hei,” She sighs, “Ginger is good.  Eat a lot.”

 

            John nods and slurps quietly.  Mrs. Fon is not so subtly giving him the ‘I care about you and we’re having words about this now’ face.

 

            “He is a good man?” Mrs. Fon asks and John chokes.  He coughs for a couple seconds and then wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

 

            “Uh, I don’t know him that well?”  It comes out as a question and John winces.

 

            Mrs. Fon looks like she’s on the brink of smacking John’s hands with her wooden spoon, “You don’t know him?  That is irresponsible.”  She lapses into muttering.

 

            “You bring him to me and I will set him right,” Mrs. Fon says decisively.

 

            “I, uh, don’t know where he is?”  John ducks his head immediately when it looks like Mrs. Fon is about to actually get started on a true tirade.

 

            “But I’ll be absolutely sure to bring him here when I find him,” He amends quickly.

 

            The old woman looks satisfied and settles down.

 

            “You will have a beautiful baby,” She declares and nods sagely.  John blinks at her.

 

            “You are beautiful and the baby always takes after its mother, so you will have a beautiful baby,” She says.

 

            “But don’t babies take on features of both parents?”

 

            “Pah,” Mrs. Fon spits out, “Westerners, you think you know so much.”

 

            “Well, westerners have done a lot,” John replies.

 

            “Have they cured you of your need to rid yourself of your food?” She asks smugly.

 

            John opens his mouth to reply that her ginger soup hasn’t either when he realizes that his stomach isn’t attempting to forcibly eject what he’s just downed.  So he shuts his mouth petulantly and pokes at the empty bowl with his spoon.

 

            “Now go,” Mrs. Fon urges him to the door, “You do not need me to tell you what to do, you are grown.  Stupid sometimes, but grown.  And you will go crazy if you stay inside too long.  But eat these.”

 

            She hands John a giant bag filled with candied ginger.

 

            “Eat.  I will check to see if you did,” Mrs. Fon says sternly.

 

            John salutes and then scampers home, clutching the bag to his chest and wondering why he ever decided Mrs. Fon was a good person to talk to.

 

            (Delusion, John concludes later.  It must have been during a pique of drunkenness or tiredness or something.  Because John?  Not seeing what exactly he’s supposed to be doing here.  Other than eat candied ginger.)

 

***

 

            “Well?  Am I right?” Shia kicks her feet against the bleachers.

 

            “About what?” John asks through a mouthful of sugar and ginger.

 

            Shia lifts an eyebrow and John is thoroughly impressed by the way a ten year old can impart so much sass into that one motion.  He swallows and waits.

 

            “You know what.”

 

            “Yeah, guess I am.  I bought the little sticks and everything.”

 

            “I have total dibs on being the god aunt.”

 

            “It’s godmother and you’re too young,” John smiles.

 

            “Nuh-uh, besides, who else are you gonna ask?  Mrs. Fon’s more like a god-grandma than a godmom,” Shia shrugs, “Besides, I’d be a cool one.”

 

            “I’m not doubting your coolness, I’m just doubting your ability to not get my kid to grow up to be some mystical voodoo practitioner.”

 

            “Voodoo is for whack jobs, Tibetan Buddhism is where it’s at right now.”

 

            “That’s…wonderful,” John manages.

 

            “Yeah, they’ve got some pretty awesome stuff going on.  All those Tibetans,” She lights up suddenly, “Oh, who got you pregnant?”

 

            John locks up and forces himself to relax.  Because Shia is more observant than the other kids and can smell a lie a mile off.

 

            “I don’t remember.”

 

            “You could be Donna Noble, y’know.  With the not remembering and everything.”

 

            “You need to stop watching Dr. Who.”

 

            “You don’t bring kid friendly stuff.  Father Reilly says so.”

 

            “And you’ve always listened to Father Reilly.”

 

            “When it’s useful,” Shia says truthfully.

 

            She kicks her feet up a little higher and John watches her sneakers, scuffed and starting to fray around the edges, scrape against gravel before going up in the air.

 

            “Oh!  We saw Bane again the other day,” She perks up.

 

            “Where?”  John is on alert immediately and counts the kids.  Six on the court, four by the badly drawn chalk square, another three on the jump rope, seven playing hopscotch, and one sitting under the tree.  He relaxes when all twenty two are accounted for.

 

            “I dunno,” Shia shrugs, “I didn’t see him.  Louie did.”

 

            “Right,” John says and stands, “Hey guys, c’mon over.”  He waves a hand at everyone and sits back down.

 

            The kids drop everything and rush over, tussling with each other to get the spot closest to John.

 

            “Now, I need to know who saw Bane in the last few days.”

 

            The silence is telling.

 

            “You guys know that I know you met him because you’re not all attempting to talk over each other to tell me the most outrageous story, right?” John sighs.

 

            “He gave me and Remi cookies,” Louie says.

 

            “Remi and I,” John corrects automatically and then lets out another sigh (Gordon’s grammar is starting to infect him), “And cookies.  Are you sure Bane gave them to you?”

 

            “Technically it wasn’t Bane,” Remi pipes up eagerly, “It was the other guy.  The skinny one with the beard and the…the…”  Remi makes himself a finger moustache.

 

            “Yeah, yeah,” Louie chimes in, “But it’s not a moustache, it’s more like when you forget to shave.  Except he looked cooler than you do when you forget to shave.”  Louie levels John with a look that John thinks means “grow cooler stubble,” but you can never be sure with Louie.

 

            “Oh, oh, oh!” Remi waves his hands, “He said to tell you that the cookies were from Bartholomew.  I dunno what that means though.”

 

            John digs his fingers into his jeans and counts backwards from ten.  Bane and Barsad are coming onto his turf and messing with his kids and that.  Is not.  Acceptable.  Ever.  So he puts on his GCPD face and bends further down.

 

            “I need everyone to tell me exactly where they saw Bane and around when and if he gave you anything,” John whispers, “And you can’t tell anyone about this.”

 

            The kids nod and almost everyone mimes zipping up their lips and tossing the key away.  Then the floodgates open and the kids are babbling over one another to tell John.

 

            “Contrary,” John says loudly before quieting, “To popular belief, I am not actually capable of hearing twenty different things at once.”

 

            “He beat up the guy who’s been looking at Shia and Mina and Leah funny,” Eddie volunteers.

 

            “Bane?”

 

            “No, Bartholomew.  Is that his real name?  He looked like he was trying not to laugh when he said it to us.”

 

            “Inside joke,” John answers dismissively, “Next?”

 

            “Got us lollipops,” Mina says next, “On our way home from the food truck, he stopped us and gave us a bunch of lollipops.”

 

            “Bane?”

 

            Mina nods.

 

            “So you just took lollipops from a stranger.  Moreover, you took lollipops from a terrorist.”

 

            Mina shrugs, “He’s not a stranger if he’s on TV.  I mean, we still know who he is.”

 

            “But a terrorist,” John gives a strangled groan as he puts his head in his hands.  Self-preservation, you’d think street kids would have more of that.

 

            “But lollipops,” Mina argues back.

 

            “Right, moving on, next.”

 

            “I think he gave Father Reilly soap.”

 

            “You think he gave Father Reilly soap,” John repeats.

 

            “Yeah, not Bane, but the other guy.  I think he gave Father Reilly soap.  We’re actually clean!  Smell!”  Lucas thrusts his arm into John’s face and he takes a cursory whiff.  Surprisingly enough, he doesn’t recoil from the scent.

 

            “You smell like soap,” John says, ever articulate.

 

            Lucas gives him a “duh” face before someone else adds their contribution to the Bane sightings journey they’re on.  John should really start keeping a journal.  Maybe a little moleskin notebook.  He can title it _Where in the fucking world is Bane Santiago?_   Or something in that vein.

 

            “He comes by after you leave,” Rufus says quietly and John can barely hear him.  He shushes the other kids and they settle.

 

            “One more time,” John prompts.

 

            “He comes by after you leave,” Rufus says, “Just sits and scares away the bad people.”

 

            John leans back on the bench, dumbstruck.  Bane, Gotham’s reckoning, takes time out of his busy schedule of breaking people’s necks and threatening cities to sit next to an orphanage to scare away the drug dealers and the perverts.

 

            Mind.  Blown.  Still, John isn’t a hundred percent convinced that it is in fact Bane sitting in the snow keeping watch.  Because that’s just not really a Bane-y thing to do.  Blowing up cities and breaking people’s necks in the city’s stock exchange are more what John sees Bane doing.

 

            “Go back inside, it looks it’s gonna rain,” He says.  It’s halfhearted and a lie and the kids, judging by their looks at the sky, know it.  But they shuffle obediently back into the building with only one or two whines.  Father Reilly ushers them in and then looks up at John and Shia, who hasn’t moved.  John shakes his head and Father Reilly gives him a tired smile.

 

            “Didn’t I tell you to go inside?”

 

            “You tell me to do a lot of things, doesn’t mean I listen.”

 

            John sighs, because it’s true.

 

            “So…are you going to dress up your baby like those rich fancy people?  With those…” She trails off and makes a vague gesture with her hands, “Dunno what they’re called.”

 

            John opens his mouth to reply and then shuts it, realizing that he doesn’t either.

 

            “Yeah, me neither,” He finally admits, “Never was rich enough to know.”

 

            “I think you’re gonna be a boss dad.  Not like a mafia boss dad but a boss dad, like a.  Shoot.  What was it.  Louie used it the other day…oh!  You’re gonna be a BAMF or maybe it was a DILF.”

 

            “The first one,” John says hurriedly, “Definitely the first one.”

 

            “You are here longer than is per usual.”

 

            “Jesus fucking hell!” John starts and whips around, his hand on his gun.

 

            Barsad stares at him, confusion only visible in the slightly tighter crinkles between his eyes.

 

            “Do you not have errands you must accomplish today?”

 

            “Get out,” John hisses, “Get out and don’t come back.”

 

            “Is he Bartholomew?”  Shia asks.  John ignores her in favor of a stare down with Barsad.

 

            “Are you Bartholomew?”  Shia asks Barsad when it becomes clear that John isn’t going to answer her.

 

            “I am indeed,” Barsad answers, mouth quirked up the tiniest bit at the edges.  He puts his hand out in Shia’s direction and she shakes it.

 

            “Cool, I’m Shia.”

 

            “It is wonderful to meet you, young Shia.”

 

            “Why are you here?” John butts back into the conversation, his fingers itching against his gun.

 

            “I have been ordered to watch the children, to make sure no harm befalls them.”

 

            “And that’s it.  That’s all you’re here for?  You’re not gonna go super terrorist on everybody and hold them hostage?”

 

            Barsad gives John a look that somehow manages to convey his offense and his feelings that John has a tad of an overactive imagination.

 

            “Shut up,” He says petulantly, “It could happen.”

 

            “I did not say anything.”

 

            “Uh, guys?  As impressive as your eyebrow showdown is, I’m gonna go inside.  Y’know, before it _rains_.” Shia giggles and John scowls.

 

            “It worked okay.  Everyone but you went inside.”

 

            “I’m an outlier, John.  Bye Bartholomew!” Shia waves and Barsad inclines his head toward her.

 

            They both watch her make her way across the empty blacktop and into the orphanage, waiting until the door shuts before snapping back to look at each other.

 

            “How the fuck am I knocked up?” John blurts out.

 

            Barsad blinks, “I am not sure what you are asking.  You seem to be in good condition.”

 

            “Not beat up.  Knocked up.  Like…pregnant.”

 

            Realization dawns on Barsad’s face and he says, “Dr. Crane.”

 

John gestures for him to continue and Barsad rolls his eyes, “He gave us a shot that would allow you to bear children.”

 

            “O…kaaaaay.  Right, right, yeah coming back to that one later,” John says, it doesn’t even make him feel any better that he was right about the how of his pregnancy because hey, he’s still pregnant.

 

            “Why am I pregnant?”

 

            “Dr. Crane’s injection,” Barsad’s tone says it all:  John is a little slow and will he please listen to things the first time around?

 

            “No, that’s how.  I got stabbed with that needle the other day and poof,” John adds jazz hands for effect, “I can suddenly have kids.  Halle-fucking-lujah.  Why is more like why did someone go through all the trouble of stabbing me with a needle so that I could have kids.”

 

            “Our mistress,” Barsad says slowly, carefully, “Was worried about Bane, that he would not have anything to fight for if she were to…meet an untimely end, shall we say.  So he was allowed to choose himself a lover who would bear him a child.”

 

            He stops and mulls over his words.

 

            “No, that is not entirely correct,” He proclaims finally, “But it is the best explanation I can give.”

 

            “And he couldn’t have gone for, oh, I don’t know, a woman?”

 

            “Our mistress does not take well to other women.”

 

            John tosses his hands in the air, “Great, so because Miss High and Mighty doesn’t play well with the other children I’m Bane’s baby mama.  Go me.”  He does an angry imitation of waving a flag.

 

            “But in all seriousness,” John says, “Why me?”

 

            “I do not know,” Barsad answers truthfully, “Bane is better at seeing what lies inside people.  Perhaps there is something inside that draws you to him.”

 

            “Like the fact that I’m carrying his kid?” John has to sit down because it hits him all at once then.  He’s sort of just been floating in this cloud of wow, pregnant and oh god, Bane.  But it’s all been in a tangential sort of way.  And now his brain is finally making all the connections.

 

            “Holy crap,” He breathes out, “I’m pregnant with Bane’s kid.”

 

            “Yes.”

 

            “I’m going to have Bane’s kid.”

 

            “Yes.”  This one sounds a little more annoyed, but John gives no fucks.  Because Barsad is part of this, he’s the one who stabbed John with the magic needle.  And Barsad’s annoyance is no care of John’s.

 

            “I’m not going to have Bane’s kid.”

 

            Barsad frowns, “I do not understand.”

 

            “No,” John says, “I’m not having his kid.  Okay?  Because first, kids plus guys don’t mix.  Biologically, it’s not a thing.  Second I’m not having the kid of some super terrorist.  And third, I still have work down at the pre—the soup kitchen.  I work at a soup kitchen.” (Barsad raises an amused eyebrow at that, but says nothing.)

 

            “And how do you propose to get rid of the child,” Barsad says, voice smooth.

 

            “I haven’t gotten that far in the planning,” John collapses, all his fight leaving, “I don’t know.  But I mean, why me?  Why does it have to be me?  I was going to do things and…”

 

            “Yeah, you know what?  Fuck Bane,” He whips around to face Barsad, suddenly angry.

 

            “I believe you already have,” Barsad says and John’s mouth drops.

 

            “You made a joke or a thing like a joke,” John says, pointing, “I didn’t know super terrorists had a sense of humor.”

 

            “Continue,” Barsad nods, as if John’s hysterics and swinging moods are nothing he hasn’t dealt with before, “I believe you had more to say.”

 

            “Yeah well, fuck you too, for stabbing me with that stupid little needle and fuck Crane for coming up with that shit and fuck whoever your mistress is for giving Bane ideas and FUCK ALL OF THIS SHIT,” John shouts, fists clenching and unclenching against his jeans.

 

            Barsad gives John a single awkward pat on the shoulder and then withdraws, looking distinctly uncomfortable.  John groans and buries his head in his hands, scrubbing his fingers through his fringe.

 

            “Perhaps,” Barsad says hesitantly, “It would help for you to vent yourself to Bane directly?”

 

            “How likely is he to throttle me if I do?” John mumbles into his palms.

 

            “You are carrying his child; I hardly think that he would be of mind to hurt you.”

 

            John can’t see Barsad’s face, but there’s a slight undertone of indignation in the other man’s voice, as if the very idea of Bane harming John offends him.  John just lets out another indistinguishable garble into his hands.  That earns him another stiff pat on the shoulder from Barsad and a coughing sound.

 

            “No.”  John says, “Whatever you’re about to suggest, no.”

 

            Barsad’s disapproval is practically a physical thing in the space between them, (he’s the mother-in-law, John decides, and I’m the hapless person who’s unfortunately marrying into the family) but he only clears his throat.

 

            “You should still talk to him.  Bane has been acting more and more like a caged beast recently, the men are beginning to stay away from him.”

 

            “Because I want to help terrorists sooo much,” John snarks back.

 

            “Or you can let Bane come to you and the discussion won’t be nearly as nice,” Barsad continues.

 

            “You know what?  Fine,” John declares, standing up, “I’ll talk to him and tell him to his stupid face that I’m not having his fucking kid because no, not happening.”

 

            “Articulate reasoning.”

 

            “Shut up, Bartholomew.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's talk with Bane isn't actually bad. Sort of. If he thinks of it in the sense of "what could have happened."

 

            John follows Barsad all the way to the docks, where Barsad hangs a left and ducks through a hole in the fence.  It’s like entering another world when John pulls himself through.  The Gotham on the side he just left is dirty, despite the snow and the ice everywhere, smog boiling up from fires burnt on things never meant to burn and sickness roiling through everyone.  On this side of the fence, the ground is white, nearly pristine except for tracks leading from building to building.  There isn’t anyone else in sight, but John can feel the familiar prickle of being watched.  Barsad seems at ease, so John doesn’t think too much about it.

 

            They trek past several warehouses until they come to a larger one and Barsad pushes the doors open, letting the winter light flood into the dim warehouse.  There is shuffling as men sit down hastily and Barsad comes very close to rolling his eyes.

 

            “You are mercenaries, not gossipy old women,” He says, voice soft.  Yet the sound carries across the room and the air immediately turns somber.

 

            “This way,” He nods towards a staircase in the back corner.  The men all watch John as they make their way to the back.  It weirds John out, how they all seem to be moving in tandem, completely still but for the smooth turning of their heads.

 

            As soon as Barsad steps back to let John into the room, an office of some kind, and shuts the door, chatter breaks out among the men.  It’s muffled but John can hear raucous laughter and the familiar cadence that signifies bets being called in another language.

 

            Bane stands in the back of the room, feet planted shoulder width apart, leaning down to inspect something on the table.  Barsad says something in a foreign language and then retreats, closing the door quietly behind him.  John doesn’t have to wait long before Bane straightens and turns to face him.

 

            “Habibi,” He greets and John snaps.

 

            “No, you know what?  Fuck you.”

 

            Bane looks surprised, a flicker of confusion passes through his features and then disappears.  John narrows his eyes and points a finger accusingly at Bane.

 

            “I’m not having your kid,” He declares.

 

            Bane steps closer, hands stroking thoughtfully along the lines of his vest.  John refuses to step back this time, instead drawing himself up and staring Bane dead in the eye.

 

            “You know why?  Because you’re a terrorist.  You’ve threatened to blow up my city.  My home.  And then you waltz into my life and get me pregnant,” John snaps out.

 

            “Habibi,” Bane says again and John sucks in a breath, prepared to start up again when he notices the look in Bane’s eyes.  There’s amusement there, like John is some small pet that has done a pleasing trick, and even more than that, there’s adoration.  But not the passing adoration of some lovers or even the eternal love of those who know that they will be together forever.  Bane looks like the world should bow at John’s feet, like he would kill for John.  And suddenly John is scared, because this is a man who has killed in cold blood in the name of a cause.

 

            He falters a little and that second is all it takes for Bane to sweep forward and take John’s hands in his own.  Bane runs a thumb across the back of John’s hands, the touch reverent.  He releases one to run the back of his fingers down John’s cheek before leaning forward and pressing his forehead against the same spot.

 

            “Habibi,” Bane breathes out, the sound barely a whisper, “Do not say you will not carry my child.  It is all I wish.”

 

            That snaps John out of it; he pulls back, “All you wish?  You don’t even know me.  I’m just some cop that hasn’t died yet.”

 

            Bane hasn’t lost the look of amusement and adoration yet.  If anything, the emotions have become stronger.  John is hyper aware of the soothing motion of Bane’s thumb against his wrist and he stubbornly ignores it.

 

            “I hate you,” He continues, “How can you want me to carry your child?”

 

            “There is a fire in you,” Bane says, “An innocence that cannot be found here.  In the depths of this slum, you are pure and strong.”

 

            “I can’t do this,” John mutters, yanking his wrist back.  Bane relinquishes it with little hesitation.

 

            “I can’t have a kid; I can barely take care of my own life.  I can’t take care of someone new when I have other people to protect,” He says, uncaring that it’s beginning to sound like he’s babbling.  Bane’s face shuts down and he moves in closer, caging John in against the wall.

 

            “Who.”

 

            It’s not a question and there’s a menacing air accompanying the word.  Bane’s hands curl into fists above John’s shoulders and the cold scent of painkillers comes rushing out of the mask, bathing John’s face.

 

            “No one, just this old lady who lives down a couple apartments,” John says hastily, putting up his hands.  It’s a poor defense and one John knows will give him no protection if Bane decides to get volatile.

 

            Bane’s straightens at that and what looks to be a smile crinkles the edges of his eyes.  He steps back and John lets out a breath and lowers his hands slightly.

 

            “I’m not going to have your kid,” He says again, for emphasis, just to make sure Bane’s clear on all this.

 

            “You are welcome to leave, if you can,” Bane says loftily, “But if you are not mine, I am not sure what those men will do to a cop.”

 

            John’s lungs lock up at the prospect. Who would check on the St. Swithins kids?  The only bargaining chip they’ve got is John.  Who would make sure that Mrs. Fon actually got to eat?

 

            “You can’t do that,” John protests, but it’s feeble at best.  He knows it is.  Knows that if Bane wanted to, he could crush them all and leave nothing but a memory behind.

 

            “Then you will stay,” Bane declares.

 

            “I can’t do that,” John argues, “The kids will miss me.”

 

            “Then you wish to negotiate?”

 

            “This isn’t a negotiation,” John hisses, “I’ll have your kid but I won’t stay here.  Not with you.”

 

            For a moment there, Bane looks hurt, genuinely pained that John doesn’t seem to want to stay with him.  It sends a vindictive happiness through John because it’s the only victory he’s had so far.

 

            “Very well then,” Bane acquiesces.  He nods towards John and then turns back towards his papers.  It takes John a minute to process what Bane’s said.  But once it gets through, he nods and makes for the door.

 

            “I will check on you each day,” Bane says, back still turned to John.

 

            “Right,” John says and then he’s gone.  Barsad gives him an assessing look as he speeds past and goes running down the stairs.  He needs to get out; out of the pristineness that coats this side of Gotham.  He needs to be on the other side, needs to breathe in the dirty air and remind himself why he keeps fighting for Gotham.

 

***

 

            To say that John is hiding would be an understatement.  He just hasn’t been to his apartment in two weeks and has only dropped by St. Swithins in the wee hours of the morning and stayed there all day.  Basically, John hasn’t been outside a building for an extended period of time in two weeks.  He’s also been bribing the St. Swithins kids to tell Barsad that he is not, in fact, hiding in the orphanage.  It seems to be going alright.  In fact, if you asked him, John would tell you that he’s employing effective evasive maneuvers.

 

            Mrs. Fon calls it avoidance and tells him as much when she sits him down one morning to rag on him about bringing home the boyfriend.  There’s lots of ginger involved (where she gets it still baffles John) and John’s never been smacked with a soup spoon on the back of his hand in as many times in his life as he has in the last hour.  He figures it’s a skill Mrs. Fon earned when she leveled up into John’s sort of parental figure.

 

            She’s currently telling him that he can’t avoid his boyfriend (John’s given up on correcting her) forever.

 

            “Of course I can,” John mumbles into the table.

 

            “No you cannot!  That is bad for the soul.  Bad for the heart too.  Bad for baby,” Mrs. Fon says, nodding.

 

            “How’s it bad for the baby?  The kids already do nothing else but try and listen to my stomach for the baby.”

 

            Mrs. Fon shakes her head, “The baby needs a father’s love.”

 

            John tilts his head up and blows a stray lock of hair out of his face.

 

            “I am the father.”

 

            “Both fathers,” Mrs. Fon says, tone indicating that John is sometimes an idiot, “Baby needs love of both fathers.”

 

            “But I don’t want to,” John pouts, “It’s Bane.”

 

            “And you have not left my kitchen or the orphanage in two weeks,” She declares, “Is not healthy.”

 

            “It’s kinda hard to be healthy right now,” John says, laying his cheek back on the table.

 

            She smacks his hand with a wooden spoon, “You have a baby!  You will go find him and talk to him.  And this time I will come with you.”

 

            “That,” John sits up in alarm, “Is a horrible idea and I really think you should stay here because it’s not safe.”

 

            Mrs. Fon ignores him expertly and bundles herself into a coat that swamps her.  It simultaneously drowns her and makes her look about a million times more dangerous.  She picks her spoon back up and then turns to look pointedly at John.

 

            “I really think this is a bad idea.”

 

            “Then I will talk to him.”

 

            “I feel like that’s a worse idea.”

 

            She sighs, “You cannot avoid him forever.  Think of the baby.”

 

            “I don’t want to keep the baby,” John says petulantly.

 

            “You have no choice,” Mrs. Fon shouts, anger and worry bleed across her features.  John startles.  He’s never heard Mrs. Fon raise her voice before.  She’s always been the kindly old lady who thinks John’s her kid.

 

            “There is no one who will take the baby out.  There is no one left who can.  They will have died in the first few days in the bloodshed.  And if they have survived, how do you know if you can trust them?”

 

            Shame wells up in John.  She’s right, he knows it.  Just like he knows that Barsad, if not Bane, knows where he is.  Mrs. Fon’s face softens and she pats John’s hand.

 

            “I know it is hard.  Bane is not a good man.  He has done things that would make other men cry.  But neither is he a child of our world.  His is a world that is different, where strength is what decides power and the strong protect those below,” She says quietly, “To him, Gotham is diseased, because it is not the strong who stand at the top, but those who deceive and they do not care whom it is they step on.”

 

            “Why are you always right?” John grumbles as he slinks out of the chair and pulls on his coat.

 

            “Because I am a wise old lady.”  She taps her head with the spoon, “I have many things up here that you do not know of.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bane convinces John (somehow) that they must hold hands while walking and Barsad knows things about pregnancies for some reason. And John embarks on the epic journey to transform from adorable wee delicate thing to badass, hopefully.
> 
> (Also I'm trying out a new thing where I don't indent because it looks ugly while I'm writing and I kind of abhor the fact that two liners don't line up on one side.)
> 
> There are also probably mistakes galore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear god this is so overdue. For those of you not on my tumblr, AO3 was a significantly shorter wait by about 10 months.
> 
> This is also a strange chapter because it took me six different rewrites and I liked none of them, so I kind of cherry picked the bits I did like from the other versions and smooshed them all into something that's hopefully coherent and actually contributes to the story.
> 
> (Also I'm trying out a new thing where I don't indent because it looks ugly while I'm writing and I kind of abhor the fact that two liners don't line up on one side.)
> 
> There are also probably mistakes galore because I lost my outline and lost track of whether or not I wrote things into this story or into one of the others I have in progress.
> 
> But hopefully you all still enjoy it!

Barsad is officially the world’s beardiest babysitter.  Mrs. Fon is under the impression that John is incapable of taking care of himself, which, hey, grown man who happens to be part of the GCPD here.  Not that Mrs. Fon cares.  As far as she’s concerned, John is a delicate little flower that needs his baby daddy and a big, gruff bodyguard (read: babysitter) to keep him safe.

John is still hoping that if he stares long enough, and hard enough, at the back of Barsad’s head, it will light on fire.  It hasn’t happened in the ten minutes since Mrs. Fon flitted off to talk to Bane (and there is no world in which that talk is going well).  It’s disappointing to say the least, John’s always wished for telekinetic powers.  It’d be good way for the world to make up for him having a shitty childhood.

What he doesn’t expect, and judging by Barsad’s face, the merc doesn’t expect it either, is Mrs. Fon patting Bane on the arm like the little old grandma she looks to be and then telling Bane very, very sternly that John and the baby need to be taken care of.

It’s the most mortifying ten seconds of John’s life.

***

John is only slightly irritated that Bane doesn’t treat Barsad like he’s a delicate piece of glass.  But only slightly.  There’s no full on silent frustration going on in John’s head, not at all.  If he’s come up with and discarded three increasingly crazy attempts to prove that he’s not delicate, well, that’s John’s business.

Bane insists on holding John’s hand as he leads the way through a maze of tunnels.  Every few feet, a lantern is bolted into the wall, spilling orange light into the dark tunnels.  Mrs. Fon chatters with Barsad about prenatal care remedies and it’s only a little bit surprising that Barsad knows enough about the subject to hold his ground.

“Is there anything Barsad doesn’t know?”

Bane’s eyes crinkle at the edges and he stops his stride to press his free hand to John’s face.

“He does not know how you sound when we make love,” He declares proudly and then continues moving forward.

“Crazy, you’re all crazy,” John mutters, “And missing senses of propriety too.”

Bane leads John out into a large circular room with large bleacher-esque figures hacked out of the walls, which curve up into a dome where a bright spotlight hangs.  It shines down on a white mat that sits squarely over a good quarter of the room.  The mat itself is surrounded on all sides by fencing that barely rattles when one of the men in the ring throws his opponent into it.

John watches the proceedings warily as Bane gently tugs him towards the open section of roughly hewn stone benches and urges him to sit.  Mrs. Fon sits next to him and pats his knee comfortingly.  John notices then that, somewhere along the way, she acquired a wooden spoon and lost her giant coat.

A roaring cheer goes up as the man left standing in the ring pounds a fist against his chest, kisses it, and raises it to the sky.  He circles the ring, looking out at the people seated haphazardly across the stands.  When his eyes land on Barsad, he points and yells.

“Look, the stick man has come to play!”  A faction of the room, likely the man’s friends from what John can deduce, laughs uproariously.

Barsad strips down to his trousers and carefully places his shoes in front of John.

“Do not lose those.  I like them,” He warns before making his way into the ring.

It becomes very clear why Bane doesn’t see Barsad as wee as soon as John has sat through six rounds of cage matches.  The mercenaries under Bane’s command all shout insults and encouragement at the two men facing off in the center.  Barsad’s tanned skin ripples over muscle as he slams his open palm straight into the other man’s stomach and the sweat on his back glistens.

“Does Barsad lose ever?” John grumbles into his hand.

He doesn’t bother looking over at Bane, because he knows that he’ll just see that weird blend of amusement and devotion that always seems to be present when Bane looks at John.  The answer is very obviously no, because there’s no way Bane would ever consider having a second in command that loses.

Just before Barsad lays the other man in the ring to waste, a merc comes rushing up to Bane.  Whatever he whispers in Bane’s ear is important enough to get him to leave.  Bane traces the back of his hand over the curve of John’s cheekbone, his eyes crinkling in a way that shouldn’t be familiar but is, and leaves.

John slumps farther into his seat and watches Barsad flip a man twice his size over his shoulder.  He’s suddenly hyper aware of the way the spectators get quiet and almost eerily turn to look at him.  There’s judgment in their eyes, an anger that says that John is not good enough for their leader.  Barsad snaps something at them, a strange guttural sound, and the men turn away from John.  The murmuring that starts up is restless and it prickles at his skin.

“Do not listen to them,” Barsad says as he rustles a towel through his hair, “Bane has chosen you because he sees a strength in you he wishes to protect.”

“Wow,” John turns a smirk up towards Barsad, “That might just be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Do not push your luck,” Barsad snaps back.

A group of men sitting on the other side of the cage burst into raucous laughter and one stands up.  He shouts a string of words in what John thinks is Arabic and the room falls to silence following it.  Barsad looks ready to retaliate when John stands.

“What’d he say?”

“You do not want to know,” Barsad grinds out through gritted teeth.

“Tell me,” John insists, “As much as you and Bane seem to think so, I’m not some fluffy little pet that needs to be sheltered.”

Barsad raises an eyebrow.

“You are a cop in a city that feeds off indulgence.  I do not expect you to be on par with any of our men.”

“I was also a street orphan for almost twenty years before I became a cop, give me a shot.”

Barsad remains stubborn and continues to swipe his towel over his stomach.  The man, emboldened by the lack of response from Barsad, continues shouting.  Other men join him as they become braver when Barsad simply angrily whips the towel across his legs to dry them.

“If Bane finds out and gets mad, I’ll take the blame.  Just tell me.”

Barsad straightens and hisses, “And if I do?  Will you take to the cage and fight for your honor?  How will I tell Bane that I have led his beloved to a slaughter?”

“Then you let me tell him,” John replies.  He’s beyond the anger now that had been bubbling under his skin with the initial taunts.  There’s a sort of calm over him, a security in knowing that the only way to kill the opposition is to prove it wrong.

“No.  One day you can prove that you are not what they say you are.  But if you walk into that cage today, you will crawl out.”

Barsad says this with a finality that brooks no arguments and gathers his things before shoving John towards the exit.  He turns one last time at the door to calmly mete out an order that has the men clamming up.  The fear John can see in their eyes as Barsad pushes him around the corner only makes him feel worse.

***

“Oiseau!”

John is grabbed roughly and maneuvered by a very large, very blonde man who proceeds to place kisses on both cheeks.  It’s all very disconcerting, especially since John can see Barsad’s amused face as he’s swung around to face the rest of the room by his overenthusiastic hugger.

“You are exactly as we have all imagined,” The man nods approvingly and slings an arm of John’s shoulders.

“Anjou, stop scaring the kid,” A gruff looking woman in the corner says, “Besides, he’s not what everyone imagined.”

She stops and looks John over carefully, “I thought he’d be taller.”

“Ro’s right, I thought he’d be blonder too.”  This comes from the stocky dark skinned man shaking dice across from the woman.

“My lot was in that he was a woman,” A boy says this as he kicks his feet up over the back of his chair.

“You know how Talia gets with women,” Anjou says, “She barely likes Ro.”

Ro barks out an ugly laugh, “If Talia likes me, she’s got a weird way of showing it.”

“Who’s Talia?”

Everyone in the room turns to look at John.

“Ah, look at that, the little bird finally speaks,” Ro says.  She slams a cup down over the dice the dark skinned man throws and moves it around on what looks like a game board.

“Talia is our goddess,” Anjou says pleasantly, “She is the reason we take to the streets for revolution.”

“She’s also the only one Bane reports to,” The boy calls out.

“She may be your goddess, but she sure as shit ain’t mine,” Ro lifts the cup and swears, “I don’t pledge my faith to a woman who would as soon put a knife through my chest if she thought I was trying to canoodle with Bane.”

She looks up at John and shrugs, “No offense sweetheart, but your man ain’t my type.  I like ‘em a little more on the bendy side.”

“He’s not my man.”

Ro smirks at him as she sweeps the dice up and moves a little piece to the left.

“Sweets,” She says as she rattles the cubes in her hands, “Until you tell him you ain’t his, he’s yours.”  John watches the fall of the little white die, dwarfed by her hands, and lets the clatter of them against the wood table punctuate her words.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” He mumbles.

“And I am sure that Bane would not appreciate you undermining his standing with John,” Barsad cuts in.  Ro looks like she’s about to unleash a particularly cutting remark, if the glee on her face is anything to go by, and she rolls her eyes resignedly when Barsad pins her with a pointed stare.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t ruffle the little darling’s feathers too much, I got it, I got it.” She waves a hand in dismissal.  The man across from her lifts the cup in his hand and she crows in delight, moving one of her pieces in a complicated maneuver that results in three items pinging off the table and away into the shadows.

“Marsellus, get started on dinner.  Bane’s going to be late,” Barsad nods at the boy hanging over the chair.  Marsellus’ face is red from the blood rushing to his head and he looks to be holding his breath.  He puffs it all out and gargles out a disapproving noise.

“Do I have to?  Why can’t Ro cook?”

“Briquettes are not dinner,” Anjou says and nods like he’s just answered all the questions in the world with his sage advice.

“Neither is boiled cabbage,” The man sitting across from Ro remarks.  He’s staring intently at the board, tracing the carvings with a large finger before planting his thumb squarely against one of the flat pieces.

“Then maybe you should cook, Kit,” Marsellus says, “If all I can cook is boiled cabbage, you should grace us with your oh so fantastical cooking skills.”

“Can we just accept that none of us can cook and that cabbage is better than nothing?” Ro groans.  She’s staring just as hard at the board and her fingers are twitching as she watches Kit’s thumb like a hawk.

Quick as a flash, Kit flicks the piece forward and Ro snaps it away by slamming two of her long upright pieces together.  The flat disc goes spinning away and Ro whoops in victory.

“Right, I want the knife now,” She says.  Kit hands over a wrapped packet and Ro carefully pulls it apart.

“Hey, sweets, come here.”  She motions John over with a small flick of her fingers and Anjou pushes John towards her.

The hair at the back of his neck prickles and he dodges to the right.  There’s a flash of silver streaking past his left eye and then the chill of an untouched blade resting against his temple.

“I can work with those reflexes,” Ro says thoughtfully as she slides the knife off John’s face.

“Bane has expressed his wishes to keep John away from training,” Barsad says.

Ro turns away from John and directs her attention to Barsad, who, for all his earlier orders to Kit, seems to be dicing vegetables.

“Until Bane expresses those wishes to me, I’m training him.  Ain’t everyone here like us, y’know.  Some of those mercs’ll eat him alive if he can’t learn to parry a knife.”

“I’m not actually as fragile as you think I am.”  Indignance colors John’s tone and he’s so irritated at being treated like a porcelain statue that he doesn’t notice Ro’s leg hooking around his ankle and knocking it out from under him.

John lands on the hard packed dirt floor awkwardly, his hand at a weird angle underneath him.  Pain shoots through his wrist and he swears.

Ro doesn’t look the least bit sorry.

“Anjou’ll patch up your wrist, sweetheart, but that’s exactly why we gotta train you.  Ain’t no dogs going to be sniffing around you after we’ve made you into a wolf.”

***

John hits the dirt floor again.  But at least this time his shoulder strikes the packed dirt first instead of his ass.  Ro is muttering to herself about incompetency in police officers.

“I would just like to say,” John makes himself comfortable on the floor, “That we are not trained to take on first class mercenaries.”

Ro’s braid smacks him soundly across the nose as she flips over to face him.

“No, I can see that.  But you’d think they’d at least teach you the basic principles of staying on your feet.”  A wrinkle appears across her nose at her apparent distaste at the teachings of GCPD’s training academy.

“Number one rule in a fight is if you can’t get up, you’re fucked.”

“That’s great to know.  Especially since your goal seems to get me on my back.”

“Sweets, if I wanted you on your back, it wouldn’t be for bruising.”

John is a master of sarcasm and witty comebacks, except where sex innuendos are concerned it seems.  Ro sighs again when John doesn’t say anything.

“Up with you.  Go get Anjou to fix you up, we’ll start again tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next update won't be so long in coming. I think. Don't hold me to that. For more of my as of yet unconsolidated to A03 fics, my tumblr is ilokheimsins@tumblr.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hark! What is that my eyes see? A chapter update???? Whaaaaat????
> 
> We finally have Bane POV! What is this madness? This is the chapter I have titled in my folder as “The one where all the horribleness of chapter 4 is hopefully rectified.”  
> Also I’m so terribly sorry this is as late as it is. School is a devastating thing and I'm absolutely convinced universities thrive off of sucking out the souls of their students.

Bane drops the dead man dispassionately.  The corpse’s skull hits the stone loudly and the sound echoes in the vast space.  Bane brushes his hands off on his pants, ignoring the small smear of blood that comes off his thumb.  He stands straight and hooks his hands around the straps of his vest.  Of the mercenaries who brought him the dead man, only one stands straight.  He looks indignant and Bane would bare his teeth in a smirk if he could.

Prideful fool.

The others cower because they can feel that they’ve done something wrong.  Bane takes a measured step forward and another until he’s standing in front of the group of men.  He hums thoughtfully and strokes his thumbs over the worn leather of his straps.

“Why have you brought me this man?” He asks quietly.  Bane has long since discovered that it is not the volume with which you speak, but the manner.  And Bane has very much perfected the quiet chill that now permeates his speech.

The cocky one straightens further and replies, sarcastically Bane thinks, “Because you ordered us to.  You wanted the GCPD Chief of Police and here he is.”

Bane casts a glance at the dead man, balding and paunchy in the way many of the older men of Gotham seem to be.  He turns back to look at the mercenaries in front of him.  The rest of the group is wary, watching Bane with eyes that indicate their fear.

“Yes, perhaps I did.” Bane agrees thoughtfully.

The arrogant one, the leader of this unfortunate little group it seems, straightens further, as if this statement has affirmed his actions.

“But did you not consider why I would require the Chief of Police?” Bane tilts his head to the side and stares down.

“Dead because he was getting in the way,” The man snorts, as if Bane does not know what his own plans are.

“If I wanted him dead, I would have ordered you to leave him so in a very public place so that his death could serve as a warning to others who might try and corral a rebellion.”

Quick as a striking snake, Bane pins the other man to the wall with one hand.

“Did you not consider that perhaps I wanted him…alive?”

There is fear now, in the other man’s eyes.  The dawning fear of someone who has just realized their mistake and has realized they are too late to rectify it.

“There is a saying which I believe is apt to this situation,” Bane taps his head with his free hand, “What was it again?  It’s been quite a long time since I’ve had to deal with a matter like this.”

“Ah, I remember now.”  His eyes crinkle around the edges in a smile and the man squirms against his hand, babbling platitudes and apologies.

“I believe it was ‘dead men tell no tales’.”

Bane crushes the man’s ribcage, feels the wet squishing of the heart bursting between his fingers, and lets the corpse slump to the floor.

“Decide amongst yourself who will be your new lead.  Dispose of this body, perhaps in the city square, and then bring me the Vice Chief of Police,” Bane says amicably, nodding towards the group of mercenaries.

“And do try to learn from your comrade’s mistakes.”

***

It is a small task to wash the blood off his hands.  As for his clothing, a small smear here or there will not affect the effectiveness of his clothing and as such, Bane ignores the splatter on his clothing beyond a perfunctory cloth taken to some of the larger patches.  Barsad has always been better at cleaning out bloodstains anyway.

Bane is on his way back to the cage when he passes by the kitchen.  He pauses for a moment before turning into it.  Perhaps his little Robin will appreciate a snack.  He remembers Talia’s mother speaking at length of the hunger pangs she endured during her own pregnancy.  She was not well provided for, but Bane will ensure that his Robin is.

It was a surprise when his little bird came to him, with an old woman in tow perhaps, but the fact remains that his Robin is now safe with his inner circle.  Though he does not know exactly what is good for someone pregnant, Bane does recall his little bird talking about foods he misses dearly.  Bane can hear John’s voice ringing clear across the snow, urging the children to eat the precious few strawberries he’d managed to find.  The wistfulness in his voice was evident to Bane, but less so to those untrained in life.  He can still see his little bird, clad in the dark GCPD uniform, a strong pillar in an untainted land surrounded by the innocents he protects.  It is a small memory, one from the early days of his search for the perfect person to bear his child.  He contemplates this as he unearths the hidden stash of fruit a raiding group brought back earlier from a grocery store that still has, as of yet, lain untouched by the mob outside.

Before his Robin, Bane would have firmly and unequivocally said that the GCPD are as corrupt as the people they purport to protect.  And even now, he believes that though there may be those who are not corrupt, John is the exception.  His Robin is a white flame burning amongst a sea of blackened hearts.  A pure and innocent strength in a city of greed and deception.

***

Bane is debating the benefits of bringing his little Robin a slice of the cheese wheel Barsad has been hoarding viciously.  On the one hand, Barsad will not say anything to Bane when he finds some of his precious cheese missing.  But then Bane will have put up with Barsad’s passive aggressive sulking, which only ever seems to happen when Bane takes liberties with Barsad’s food hoards.  He decides to leave the cheese be because he needs Barsad and he’s not even sure that his habibi likes cheese anyway.  Bane is just about to leave when the sound of a wispy cough comes from behind him.  He stiffens, very few can sneak up on him and he turns slowly to face his adversary.

The old woman is sitting primly at the sole table in the kitchen area, her hands folded neatly on the surface of it.  She’s actually a very small being once removed from the coat that threatened to drown her.  A wooden spoon is tucked away under her right arm, the handle poking dangerously into the air.

She carefully looks him over and then gestures majestically to the seat across from her.  Bane places himself into it slowly, well aware that one of the chairs surrounding the sizeable table has a lame leg and is prone to creaking unabashedly.  Thankfully, this one is not the creaky one and Bane takes a moment to compose himself.  It is hard for him to admit that he needs such a moment in the first place, but this, he supposes, is how all men feel when they are greeted with the guardians of their lovers.  And there are likely not many guardians as formidable as Mrs. Fon is.

Bane remains silent, hoping that she will speak when she becomes uncomfortable.  She simply gazes steadily at him, her eyes flickering over his mask and down to his vest.  She catches sight of the leftover bloodstains and her mouth tips further down in a moue of disapproval but she says nothing.  Finally, it is Bane who breaks the silence, not because he is discomfited, but because he has other matters to attend to.

“You have questions for me.”

Mrs. Fon seems ever so slightly amused by this.  But she shakes her head and taps a gnarled finger very deliberately against the table.

“Why John?” She asks, her eyes sharp are sharp as flint as they track Bane’s the rise and fall of his chest as he takes a large, wheezing breath.

“He is a goodness in this pit of putridity,” Bane replies honestly, “An innocent fire that must be kept safe so that he may burn brighter once the darkness around him has been cleared.”

Mrs. Fon purses her lips ever so slightly and the scrutiny she gives him seems to have suddenly become a tangible thing.  It weighs on his shoulders and Bane resists the urge to straighten his back.  He bows to no one and this little old woman will not be the first.

“Have you told him you love him?” Mrs. Fon gazes pointedly at Bane, her very best young-man-you’d-best-tell-me-the-truth-because-I-will-know-if-you-don’t face on.

“I do not know if I do.”

The old woman sitting in front of him looks as if she could tip over and die at any moment, yet, in the short time she has been here, Bane has seen her knock four of his soldiers upside the head with a spoon and cow them into submission with her scathing words.  The look upon her face currently is not generous by any means.

“You have pulled my child into a pit of vipers and given him a child he neither wants nor knows how to care for,” She slams her spoon down onto the table viciously, “And you do not know if you love him?”

“I…am not familiar with what love is,” Bane speaks slowly, carefully.  He does not contest the claim that John is her child, though it is clear they are not bound by blood.  Taking care of Talia in the pit has given him the knowledge that a parent and child need not be tied through blood.

“You love your goddess, do you not?”

“Talia is not my goddess,” Bane says calmly, this is a topic he has had to defend frequently, “She is the one who saved me from my anger and desolation when I was imprisoned without hope.  She gave me the sun when I could not see it.”

Mrs. Fon is clearly unimpressed with this speech.

“I raised Talia for many years before the pit’s doctor, high on fumes, left her mother’s door unlocked.  I stole her from the earth and freed her to fly.  I nearly died for her but I would do it again,” This confession has always soothed Bane, has always calmed the pain he feels when the mask is not enough.

“I follow her because I must protect her and I would do everything to see her dreams fulfilled.”

“So you fulfill the dreams of another by stealing those of many?” Mrs. Fon pushes herself off her chair, “You would follow her orders to take a child even if it means imprisoning one who does not follow your ideals?”

“I have committed no theft.”

“You have stolen my John to bear your children,” She hisses, “And you do not consider this theft?  You have followed the orders of a madwoman who cannot see past her mad ideals and will bring a child into the midst of a war.  You have robbed John and this child of a future where they may be free, and still you do not call this theft?”

She stands up, drawing herself to her full height.  Mrs. Fon is not tall by any means, but the way she carries herself makes her seem enormous.

“You worship your Talia as a goddess and you would put my John on a pedestal just the same,” She declares angrily.

“Talia is your sun and now my John is your innocence and fire.”  Disgust bleeds into her tone as she rages on, “You say you do not know what love is but it seems to me you do not know what deifying someone is either.”

She draws in a heaving breath and continues, “Until you can see what John is, not what you believe him to be, you will not have him.  I will not let you.”

Mrs. Fon is evidently through with any platitudes Bane might have to offer at the moment and she sweeps out of the room imperiously, wooden spoon clutched tightly in her hand.  Bane stares after her, wondering how a woman with no physical prowess or extensive knowledge of the world can reduce him to feeling like a scolded child.

***

John is not happy by any stretch of the imagination.  The whispers of the mercenaries are a constant pressure at the back of his head and Bane’s inner circle is back to treating John like a delicate piece of porcelain after Mrs. Fon walks in on John being patched up by Anjou and promptly goes into lecture mode.

“You have a baby!” She shouts, waving her spoon accusingly at Anjou, “There will be no fighting until the baby is born!  None!”

John has never seen guilty looks on any of Bane’s troops before and it’s kind of a hilarious experience, especially on Ro, who looks like she’s never felt guilty for anything before.

“And you!” Mrs. Fon continues on, barreling straight over any complaints that look to be burgeoning, “Bartholemew, I am disappointed.”

Barsad freezes in the corner where he appears to be sneaking out the back hall.

“Bartholemew?” Marsellus whispers.

“And you!” Mrs. Fon whips around, training the end of her spoon on Marsellus.

“Me,” Marsellus echoes faintly, “Yes?”

“What are you thinking?  Letting a child work like this.  No, no, no.”  She shakes her head.

“I’m not a child,” Marsellus swings himself into an upright position, “I’m twenty five!  I’m just short.”

Mrs. Fon peers critically at Marsellus and whatever she sees apparently assuages her anger at the thought of child labor.

“I still expect better of you,” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly, “No more fighting and we are going to get better food.”

She rolls up her sleeve and points her spoon towards the makeshift kitchen in the corner.  Everyone in the room stares at it warily, there have already been whispers of the pain inflicted by the wooden spoon and no one is eager to face its wrath.

“Up!  The food will not cook itself,” She orders and everyone rushes to the back of the room.  There’s a minor incident when Kit almost stabs Barsad with a kitchen knife and Marsellus almost breaks the faucet when he tries to pry up the wrong tab.  John has just gotten hold of a pot when the wooden spoon comes down on his wrist.

“No, not you.  You will rest,” She gives him a stern look, “You have done yourself and the baby enough harm today.”

***

It takes John three days and a delivery of potatoes to find a hiding spot in which he can just sit and review his situation.  He’s pressed a bit uncomfortably against the lumpy sacks the potatoes are stored in and there’s one bag piled somewhat precariously between the stack at his back and the shelf in front of him.  But for all that there might be potatoes falling on his head soon, John is actually quite happy in his little nook.

It’s definitely better than being out there where everyone’s tense and no one will let him do anything.  Being squashed between two bags of potatoes is most certainly preferable to wandering about the complex and hearing the hisses of “Bane’s bitch” and “Bane’s whore” being thrown at his back.  And it’s infinitely better than sitting with Bane’s inner circle as they try to come up with things that aren’t physically demanding and won’t strike Mrs. Fon’s ire.  There’s surprisingly little they know how to do outside of fighting, being dangerous, and sassing each other about various subjects in multiple languages.

It’s actually alright for a little bit while Ro and Kit try to teach John the rules of the game he sees them playing all the time.  It gets much less alright when John accidentally flings the dice too hard and nearly starts a fight with the merc that gets hit.  The merc comes at John, sneering and bristling, slavering out words that sound insulting even if John can’t understand them.  Ro smacks him down neatly and efficiently and very, very calmly states that if any of the mercenaries get it in their ugly little heads to touch John, there will be pain involved.  The delicate glass treatment John receives only gets worse after that.

Not even two days later, it gets really awkward when Anjou suggests teaching John sex techniques and everyone except Marsellus (who has the social decorum of a rock) stares at everything except John.  This is around when John decides that he needs a hiding spot, immediately, pronto, without delay.  This becomes a three day search that leads to where John is now: with the potatoes.

He can hear Mrs. Fon scolding Bane’s inner circle for losing him.  And he can definitely make out Barsad’s exasperation when he asks how they lost an entire human being in the first place when there were four people supposed to be watching him.  Ro snaps something back in raspy Arabic and Kit cuts in with Afrikaans.  This is met with immediate opposition from Marsellus in a language John can’t identify yet.  The argument grows in volume, until it’s just a garbled mess of as many languages as each person can throw out until Barsad roars out a very obvious command to shut up.

Barsad snaps out something else angrily, which John presumes is an order to find him because it’s followed by a mad dash of heavily clad feet fleeing the kitchen area.  John waits for silence to fall and counts to three hundred slowly before risking a peek out of his hiding space.  The room is empty and the light leading into the hall shows no vaguely human shaped shadows on the floor.  John very carefully picks his way out of the potatoes and tiptoes over to the door facing the back of the kitchen.

He pushes it open and sighs as the chill of the air whips over his face, bringing with it the scent of the water and the familiar burn of cold in his nose.  John darts a quick glance over his shoulder at the kitchen, but the only shadows are those cast by the flickering lightbulb over the entrance.  He steps through the door and shrugs his jacket on before closing the door quietly behind him.  Sliding the hood on, he delicately steps his way over to the shadows of the next warehouse, careful to look as if he’s meant to be wandering the area.  As soon as he’s sure no one’s on his tail, John darts over to the fence and hauls himself over it, cursing as the metal linking of the fence bites into his palms.

“Gloves,” He mumbles, “Gotta get a pair of gloves.”

For the time being, he shoves his hands into his coat pockets and goes wandering into the belly of Gotham with one last perfunctory glance over his shoulder.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /casually leaves an update
> 
> More than one update???? In a year????
> 
> (don't expect this to become a regular thing. Because as much as I would like it to be, spring break is only one week and it's almost over D:)

The docks are a mocking silence to what Gotham once seemed to be.  Where once there was cold unblemished steel piercing the skies, there is now a cold, pure tableau coated in undisturbed ice and snow.  John’s breath is white against the blue sky and in the distance he can see the meandering skyline of the city at the other end of the bridge he’s next to.  John stands there until he can’t feel his nose anymore, just watching his breath dissipate into nothing, before he shakes his head and heads over to the nearest grocery shop.

There’s nothing much left in the place but John rights an overturned shopping cart anyway.  He scavenges some Gatorade that’s been kicked under shelves and piles the whole lot of it into the cart.  Even if he won’t drink it, the kids at St. Swithins will be glad to have something clean to drink.  There’s a couple of water bottles lying around that look a bit worse for the wear but are still sealed when John tests them.  The stock room has a steel door that’s locked so John squats down to pick the lock.  The door creaks open and he feels around for a light switch.

The light flickers on, spitting static and whining, to reveal piles on piles of canned and dried foods, likely for the restock that will never come now.  John commandeers a two-four of beans and some boxes of crackers before locking the door and shutting it.  He carefully picks off the “Stock Room” sign as well, shoving it in his pocket.  It might not work, but John hopes that not having a sign will mean people will pass up this door as being a janitor’s closet or something.

There’s a few leftover towels scattered across the floor and John shoves them down the sides of his cart in an attempt to make it look like a lot of towels instead of food.  No one will attack him for a bunch of towels when it’d be easier to huddle with a bunch of people, but many out there would slit his throat for the food he’s trying to get to St. Swithins.  John zips his coat up all the way and shoves his chin down until the collar comes up to his nose.  He still hasn’t managed to find gloves and settles for simply wrapping his hands in a towel.

***

Shia nearly bowls John over when she launches herself at him as he walks through the door.

“Where’ve you been?  No one’s seen you for, like, weeks,” She stares at him inquisitively, arms and legs locked around him until his arms start to shake from trying to hold her weight.

“I’ve been around.  Help me get this cart unloaded,” John says as he deposits her on the ground.

“That’s a lie,” Shia says but she helps him drag the overloaded cart through the door.  One of its wheels lets out an ugly squeaking noise and they both wince.

“No it’s not.”

“Father Reilly went past your apartment last week and all your stuff was in boxes and stuff,” She points out.  She tosses the towels into a pile by the end of the hall that looks suspiciously like dirty laundry.

John startles at that, “What?”

“You don’t know?” She asks, curiosity piqued now, “We thought you moved or something and didn’t tell us. Like you didn’t care about us anymore.”

The last bit is quiet and accompanied by the weird toe shuffle John associates with Shia trying to hide her feelings and be a grown-up.

“I’d tell you guys if I were thinking of moving and it’s not like there’s anywhere to move to right now,” John answers and gives Shia a hug, “Besides, if I didn’t care about you I wouldn’t have gotten all this for you.”

“Then why was your stuff boxed up?”

“I have no idea, but I think I might go check it out later,” John says solemnly.

“But for now, let’s get everyone to help with unloading and then we can have a cards tournament with the rest of the kids,” He suggests.

Shia whoops and goes careening into the recreation room, shouting about helping John unload food and playing cards at the top of her lungs.  John follows at a more sedate pace, making a mental note to drop by his apartment before coming back to the orphanage to bunk for the night.

***

By the time Shia and the others have been beaten enough times to actually want John to leave, it’s dark and John debates waiting until the morning to go take a look at his apartment.  The one factor that’s heavily putting him into the wait until morning camp is the sickly looking street lamp at the end of the block.  It’s the only one that’s managed to stay lit in the midst of the takeover and it’s flickering ominously.

John talks himself out of the static feeling of paranoia that’s crackling up the line of his skull and closes the door to the orphanage behind him.  The feeling tingling through his head intensifies as he makes his way down the street and in the split second it takes John to blink, he hears the nearly inaudible crunch of another foot on snow.

He continues his easy stride until he makes it to the flickering streetlight in and then breaks into a full tilt run.  The person behind him starts running and John can hear the rasping shout of a man barking orders that John can’t make out.  He skids around a corner, nearly slipping on a patch of ice.  John slams his open hand down onto the ground to push himself up again.  The man following him hits the same patch of ice and goes down hard, a loud crash followed by swearing.

John pelts down an alleyway and leaps when he comes to the brick wall dividing it in two.  His fingers catch on the edge and he works on shoving his feet into whatever crack might give him the purchase needed to heave himself over it.  He’s just managed to find one that’s large enough to give him the leverage he needs when someone yanks him down.

He lashes out and the satisfying crunch of his elbow breaking some bone reaches his ear.  There’s muffled swearing and then three more people crowding into the alleyway.  They’re all far larger than John is and they have the advantage of numbers.  John ducks the first one as he rushes forward but gets caught in the side by the second.  The fight devolves quickly as John takes a solid crack to his jaw and something starts bleeding down his face.

One of the men falls back and reaches for something that looks suspiciously like a tear gas grenade.  He covers his mouth and launches it at the ground.  It explodes into a cloud and John accidentally does what he will forever consider the stupidest decision of his life thus far.

He breathes in.

And the smoke comes, enveloping him and invading his mouth and nose.  He coughs as it tickles the back of his throat and stumbles back when it stings his eyes.  And then the scent hits.  The same mix of musk and sandalwood and earth that sent lava boiling through his veins in Bane’s room.  John staggers to the wall, presses his head into the cold brick.

Heat pours through his body and he gasps against the wall, doesn’t protest when large hands roughly manhandle him away from it.

_Habibi_

Bane’s voice comes ghosting through the air and John shakes, swears at the transparent form of him coming through the fog.

“Don’t touch me,” He garbles out.

“Don’t touch me!” John howls and snaps his head back.  The back of his skull meets squarely with the nose of the man holding him and then there’s a horrible crunch and the back of John’s head is suddenly sticky hot wet.  The man holding him lets go to clutch at his nose.  Through the haze, John can sort of hear a conversation happening but his mind aches and he doesn’t understand it.

“I thought you’d said it make him docile.”

“Can’t fucking take a wildcat back to the boss.”

“Just shoot him, tell the boss he brained himself on some ice.”

“Can’t fucking—Who the fuck are you?”

The man behind John shoves past and John goes down into the snow.  The sudden shock of cold clears up some of the fog in his head and he struggles up before collapsing, forehead pressed to the cold.

There’s something happening at the mouth of the alleyway, a fight, John thinks, but he doesn’t care, because the pressure in his skull, one that’s telling him to let the fire coursing through his veins take over, is growing and no matter how he cools his head it won’t die.  A hand on his back startles him and John comes up snarling, hand at the ready to strike upwards when the familiar spidery mass of Bane’s mask comes into view.

“Habibi.”

The word feels realer than it did earlier, mixed with the wheeze of the mask and the rumbling, rolling feel of the sound traveling from somewhere deep.

“No,” John pushes away, stumbles backwards to land on his ass.

Bane steps forward and John scrabbles back until he hits the wall.

“Get the fuck away from me,” John pants out, “Get the fuck away.  You’re just as bad as they are.  You don’t get to fucking come in and swoop in and save the damn day when you’re just as bad as them.”

John is rambling and he knows it, but he can’t think, it’s too hot everywhere and he needs to sate it.

“You did the same thing,” John accuses shakily, “You used the smoke too.”

He somehow manages to push himself to his feet and run past Bane.  John is gone, his feet tracking a crooked trail into the snow as he staggers his way back towards his apartment.  The fog closes in on his mind and he barely remembers the rest of his stumbling trip to his apartment.  John careens up the fire escape, swearing loudly when he nearly lurches off it and bangs his shin against the rail.  His window, complete with the shitty smiley-face curtains, pops into view and John practically throws himself against it.  The cold of the glass is bliss against his overheated cheek and he tries to fumble the lock open.  Frustration bubbles its way through the fog of _needwantfuckhotplease_ and he snaps, ripping the window up.

There’s a cracking sound that he should probably pay attention to, but John is more concerned with getting inside and getting everything off.  He sheds his clothing on his staggering journey to his mattress and stubs his foot on what feels like every box to ever exist on the way.  He slinks onto the bed, the chilled sheets sliding underneath him.  A fresh wave of heat pours through him and John moans as he tries to quell it by burrowing deeper into the sheets.

“Habibi.”

John swears and twists around.  Bane looks so very out of place amidst the cardboard kingdom that John’s apartment has become.  He takes a step forward and the floor groans in protest.  John shakes his head and shuffles away.

“Don’t touch me,” John whispers, “Don’t.  You can’t fucking touch me again.”

 “You must calm the fire within,” Bane rumbles.  His voice pierces through the fog and some part of John’s brain argues that it’d be so easy to just lay back and let Bane help.

“No,” John says, conviction in the word that John is sure he doesn’t actually have.  He shakes his head and pulls at his bedding until it’s rucked over him, a mound of fabric draped over his knees and curled around his shoulders.

“Just don’t touch me,” John mumbles and his voice cracks and something inside breaks and suddenly there are hot tears tracking their way down his cheeks.  Fear and panic suffocates him and he gulps air.  The roiling mix of the fire rushing through his veins and the panic in his mind makes him want to vomit but John breathes through his nose and his stomach abates.  His mattress sinks down and John doesn’t have to look up to know that Bane has settled himself onto John’s shitty Ikea bed.

“Very well.”

Bane’s acquiescence unknots a ball of fear inside John that he’s been pushing down for weeks.  It’s the shade of fear that’s been accompanied by the voice in the back of his head that’s been hissing “what if.”

What if Bane only brought John back to be a fuck toy?  To be used and then tossed to the men to satiate them.

“Habibi, I cannot revoke what I have done in the past,” Bane’s voice is quiet, but it jars John out of his thoughts and he realizes that he must have been speaking aloud.  Bane turns to face John, his gaze steady.

“But I can promise I will protect you and our child,” Bane declares with conviction, “And I will not touch you unless you wish it.”

He turns away then, returning to his previously silent vigil.  John sniffles and watches the shaft of moonlight coming through his window track its way across his bed.  The heat and fog recede slowly to leave confusion, a bone deep ache, and a soul-sucking tiredness in their wake.  John tips himself onto his side, squishing his face into his pillows and drawing his bedding over his head.

***

The scent of bacon is what wakes John.  More exactly, the wrongness of the presence of the scent of bacon is what does it.  John freezes under his cocoon before slowly lifting one edge of it.  The promise of grease and meat is too tempting for his pounding head and protesting body to pass up.

Bane is standing in what’s left of the kitchen, holding a steaming pan over what seems to be a fire in a pot.  John carefully shimmies off the bed and gathers the blankets around him like a protective cape.  He shuffles his way across the apartment, winding his way around the scattered boxes to stand close enough to Bane so that he can see what’s happening but far enough so that he can potentially fling his covers and flee if need be.

There is indeed an old, warped wok balancing on his stovetop, a wood fire burning in its depths.  Bane carefully turns over the bacon with a fork and the grease coating the pan pops, spitting oil into the air.

“Robin,” Bane turns to look at John for a long moment before returning to watching over the bacon, “I hope you slept well.”

John doesn’t answer, just stares resolutely at the side of Bane’s head and at the thick leather bands that rest there.  He takes a deep breath to steel himself and then speaks as firmly as he can.

“We need to talk.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bane learns of a strange order that Talia has for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the Bane POV. All of it.
> 
> I think this is the longest chapter yet.
> 
> Also I think this is pretty much the hand waviest mpreg reasoning ever. You have been forewarned.

“I am no longer a child,” Talia shouts, sweeping an expensive set of china off the table.

“Talia,” Bane warns.

“No,” Talia cuts him off firmly, her chest heaving in anger and her curls out of place, “You will listen to me for once.”

Bane remains silent and allows Talia to place her palms firmly on the table between them and collect her breath.

“I will see this through,” She says finally and looks up, “I will see this through and I will likely die in the process.”

“You will not, you must live—”

“Please, Bane,” Talia looks straight at him and there is a plea in her eyes.

Bane subsides once again but a small fear has taken ahold of his heart.  The fear that Talia has fallen so deeply into the twisted call of fear and anger and revenge that she will never return.  It is a tiny thing, barely there at all, but as Talia speaks of her plans and how she will be at the center of it all to ensure its happening, it grows.  Bane can see in Talia’s eyes how the madness has taken hold of her, how the light of what once could have been is no longer there.  He wonders how he simply let Talia walk down this path without ever seeing it happen.

“Bane, you must live,” Talia says softly.  She guides him to a squashy armchair in the corner, the one he pretends to abhor the comfort of and she pretends to not know he enjoys reading in.

“I cannot without you,” He murmurs.  He pushes a strand of her hair back into place and Talia gives him a watery smile in reply.

“You have to,” She says, “You must live a life beyond what you have had.”

“Then you must as well,” Bane replies.

“I have chosen my path and you have chosen to follow me out of what I believe is a sense of duty to my mother.”

“I chose to follow you because you saved me,” Bane says, “It would only be right to pledge my life to one who has saved mine.”

Talia shakes her head and presses her forehead against Bane’s.

“You silly man,” She breathes out, “You saved my life when we were in the pit and I saved yours by taking you from that place.  We are even.”

She straightens up then and gives him a considering look, “But, if you insist upon pledging your life to me, I would have you listen to this one order of mine.”

“Find someone, be it man or woman, but it must be someone you will love and bring a child into this world,” Talia orders, “And bring them beyond this doomed hellhole to live, to truly live.”

“You will promise me that you will do this single thing,” She says.

Bane nods, because he cannot do anything else even if the fear for Talia grows into an ugly thing that urges him to take her away from this.  But he knows she would never forgive him nor herself and he simply nods.

“I give you my word.”

***

John is so fucking happy it’s cold enough the inside of his nose freezes whenever he breathes in.  Sure there’s a downside, like freezing your ass off, but on the upside, all the food he hid away hasn’t rotted.  He’s not really sure how the kids will handle frozen strawberries, but at this point, John’s willing to take the risk and bring them out.  He shoves the entire package into his jacket and zips the thing up tight.  John shovels some more snow into the box he’s hidden on the roof of the staircase of his building and locks it.

He takes a longer route to St. Swithins, both to get some exercise in and to let the strawberries defrost a bit.  By the time he arrives, the fruits have a little bit of give to them, enough that the kids won’t break their teeth biting down.  John lets himself into the orphanage and makes a beeline for the back door.  Father Reilly is down at the supply truck and John wants to dole these out before the man comes back.  No matter what Father Reilly says about sharing food amongst one’s neighbors, John gives exactly zero fucks about his neighbors.  He cares about keeping the kids fed and having enough to try and give them a treat every once in a while to tide them through this shitty time.

The children are gathered on the basketball court in the back; playing even though there’s a half foot of snow on the ground and the air feels like ice.  Mina catches sight of him first and she sprints across the court to hug him, missing a pass as she does so and causing a general ruckus in her wake.  The ball gets tossed to the side as soon as the others catch on to John’s presence and suddenly he’s surrounded by eager kids, each one trying to wheedle him into doing something for them.

“A story!  Your bedtime stories are the best,” Remi says.

“Nooooooo, teach me how to throw a knife,” Louie whines.

“Pick locks!” Shia shouts from the back of the crowd.

That sets off a whole tide of requests for criminal skills ranging from pickpocketing to hacking into a computer system.  Some shoving occurs and there are definitely hands tugging at John’s sleeves to get his attention.  John laughs and holds up a hand.  The chatter stops immediately but now John is the center of a nearly unblinking mass of children.

“I’ve got strawberries,” He says brightly and the children shriek delightedly.

“Ah, ah,” John says, tugging the carton out of the reach of grabbing hands, “One at a time, and I only have enough for each of you to get one.”

“Awwwwwww,” Someone groans, “Hey!  If I steal it from someone else, does that mean I get two?”

“No stealing,” John says, “One for every person.  And be careful, they’re kinda frozen.”

***

Bane is trying to fulfill Talia’s orders.  The longer he takes to find someone and the closer the deadline of their plan crawls, the more irritated Talia gets.  He attributes that at least partially to having to deal with Bruce Wayne.  The man seems to be an idiot on many levels.  But much of it is her worry for Bane.

He does try.  But it is difficult to find someone when many choose to hole themselves in their homes and others flee when they see Bane’s figure in the distance.  For the moment, Bane is wandering aimlessly in the hopes that someone will be out on these streets.  He really does not want to explain to his men that he has been tasked with finding a suitable person to bear his child and that he is incapable of simply going out and finding one.  Barsad would laugh at his situation.

Barsad has laughed at his situation, now that Bane thinks about it.  The other man came in the other day when Talia was berating Bane about his lack of progress and snickered before delivering his report.  As soon as the door shut behind him, Barsad’s laughter carried through the door and Talia smiled for the first time in days.

But for now, Bane wants help from no one.  Not from his men or his inner circle.  Not even from Barsad.

The shouting of children catches his attention and he follows the sound of it around a corner.  There is a chain link fence, lined on one edge with a copse of coniferous trees, separating the rest of the world from a small area where a mass of children have gathered around one man who seems to be trying to corral them.  The man laughs then at something a child has said and Bane is struck by how beautiful the sound is.  That there could be an adult who could laugh with such freedom in such a time baffles him as much as it draws him in.

“One for everybody,” The man says and starts handing out strawberries.

Each child dutifully accepts their strawberry and flees with it, giggling and chattering to one another as they consume the treat.  The last two children move forward and Bane sees the man furrow his brow.

“John?” The boy is tentative.

“What’s up, Hans?”

“Mido’s new.  Father Reilly picked him up last week on the way back from the last shipment and he doesn’t have a mum and dad cause they’re gone now and and and and,” Hans finally remembers to breathe.

John laughs and ruffles Hans’ hair before passing both boys a strawberry each.

“It’s fine, kiddo.  He can stay,” John smiles brightly and Bane is taken with the way the sun seems to make him glow.

“Thank youuuu,” The two boys chorus and run off with their prizes.

Bane watches John look down at the empty box and make a face at it.  He heads towards the tree line and Bane thinks for a moment that he’s been spotted.  But John simply tosses the empty carton into a trashcan in the corner.

“Gotta re-portion everything,” John mutters, “Gotta tell Father Reilly to let me know when he picks up more kids.”

He takes a deep breath and then turns around.

“Who’s up for a game of basketball?”

John runs off into the mass of shrieking children who are attempting to organize themselves into teams of five.  Bane stares at the forgotten carton and then looks back up at John.  The man grabs one of the girls by the waist and spins her around, which causes all the other children to clamor for his attention.  Bane leaves then, the thought of strawberries and John heavy in his mind.

***

Bane gives in and finally asks Barsad for help.

***

Barsad, for some strange reason that Bane has yet to fathom, absolutely adores children.  And, without fail, children absolutely adore him right back.  It is an odd sight to see a man decked out in full mercenary gear with a rifle laid by him surrounded by a spellbound crowd of young children as he braids something entirely too complex into a girl’s hair while telling the story of the bonny swans.  Bane is most certainly willing to let this odd affinity for dealing with children be if it helps him get the information he needs.

“You’re better at this than John is,” One little girl pronounces as she stares at Barsad’s handiwork.

“And who is John?”

“John’s one of us!” One of the boys announces proudly.  Barsad’s only answer is to raise an eyebrow.

“No, no,” One of the other girls hushes, “John is a Swithiner, just like us.  Cept he grew up and got older and became a policeman.”

“And he stops by often then?” Barsad asks.  But his focus seems to be on a tricky part of the girl’s hair.

“Usually earlier than you, but yeah!”

“He brings us treats even though there aren’t supposed to be any anymore.”

“Yeah, he brought us strawberries last time.”

“And strawberries the time before that.”

“I like strawberries!  There’s nothing wrong with strawberries.”

“I didn’t say there was but y’know there could be variety.”

The conversation devolves from there, the children trying to reason with one another whether or not having strawberries too many times in a row still means that they’re a treat.  Barsad finishes the girl’s hair and the children ooh and ahh over it for what Bane deems to be far too long before allowing Barsad to leave for the day.  Bane leaves his hiding spot in the trees and goes to stand on the street corner to wait for Barsad.

“What have you learned?” He asks as soon as Barsad turns the corner.

“Nothing you did not hear for yourself,” Barsad replies cheekily.

“If you insist on coming only to hide, you might as well go ask the children yourself,” Barsad says as they walk back toward the docks.

“I am recognizable; the children will tell John as soon as they see him that they have seen me.”

“They probably would,” Barsad says thoughtfully, “They don’t seem to be very good with secrets unless they’re about John.”

***

Barsad’s next few attempts to wrangle information about John are about as successful, but the children don’t seem to have told John about Barsad’s existence or noticed that Bane is constantly hiding in the trees.  Bane has since learned that many of the older children do not know of Barsad either, for they are off helping John or Father Reilly with various errands and the younger children, neglected as they are in the wake of John’s shift in attention to more urgent matters, want to keep Barsad to themselves.

Today, Barsad is showing the children how to use pins to pick different types of locks that he’s scavenged from broken doors and found lying in the snow.  The children are spellbound and nearly end up stabbing each other when Barsad releases them to practice on the locks he’s brought.

“Daisy’s gonna be so jealous that I learned this earlier than her,” One of the boys says proudly.  His pin snaps out of the lock and Barsad replaces it with little more than a light admonishment to be gentler.

“And where will she learn to do this?”

“John teaches all of us once we turn ten,” The boy says brightly, “I’m just not ten yet.”

“Does John teach anything else?” Barsad asks.  He’s sitting cross-legged on the ground and showing a young girl how to twist her pin perfectly.

“Yeah,” She chirps, watching Barsad’s hands in fascination, “He teaches us how to punch someone too.”

“Also how to hotwire a car!”

“And cook spam lasagna, also,” The original boy adds in.

“He made me a bunny,” Another boy chimes in.

“Jessie, he didn’t teach you how to do that,” One of the girls sighs.

“He still made it for me,” Jessie says stubbornly, sticking his tongue out at the girl.

“He didn’t teach you how to do it!”

The argument degenerates quickly as the children begin to argue about whether or not John making something still technically counts as teaching.  Barsad breaks up the argument by saying that everything can be learned from, even a gift.  The children are spellbound by his speech and Bane thinks, not for the first time, that had he never come along, Barsad would be leading a revolution in his own right.

***

Bane learns several things that he would have previously considered frivolous bits of knowledge but that he now covets like water in the desert.

On one sunny day, when the sun pierces through the grey that clouds over Gotham, he learns that John’s full name is Robin John Blake.  And it is fitting, he thinks, that his beloved should be named after a bird.  Bane can think of nothing more appropriate for the young man than a namesake that is free to fly and to soar wherever they wish.

He learns that his Robin used to be a gymnast (which he has deduced to be some sort of acrobat) when he was young.  Bane thinks perhaps that his Robin misses being an acrobat, for the children ask often for John to perform for them and to teach them and it rarely takes him more than a token protest before he does so.  He cycles through flips and handsprings.  His movement is so like the students of the League, but where they are edges and lines, his Robin is sleek and flowing and curved.

Bane learns that his Robin loves strawberries, declared loudly by one of the children when another whines his displeasure at receiving strawberries yet again.  She berates him ferociously, yelling about how John does so much for them and how he wants to eat them because they’re his favorite fruit but he refrains so that they can have something.  The boy bursts into tears and apologizes as his Robin gathers him up.  The boy demands that Robin share his strawberry and eventually stuffs half into Robin’s mouth just to silence his protests.

The more Bane watches Robin, the more he wants.  It is a foreign feeling to him, one he has never experienced.  There is more than just the urge to revere and protect, as there is with Talia and with her mother before.  Mixed in among these feelings is a thought that he would like to see Robin smile, to hear him laugh, to watch him play with the children, and to spoil him so that he will feel loved beyond compare and so that he will be able to fly wherever he wishes.  Once he has thought these things, they stay with him, pushing at his every waking moment, as inexorable as the tide.

He also notices the way the younger children become antsy the longer they try to keep Barsad their secret.  Barsad tells him as much when he comes back after his usual visit to the orphanage.

“The children asked if they could tell John about me,” Barsad says, “I believe they thought I might disappear if they told John before.”

Bane tilts his head and Barsad continues at the acknowledgement.

“I told them to wait a week.  They seemed fit to explode when they heard.”

His face is blank, but his tone is fond.

“A week then,” Bane says as he rises from his perch on a large crate of potatoes, “Summon Dr. Crane.”

***

Bane has no love for Jonathan Crane, despite appointing the man to oversee the court.  He finds the other man cowardly.  Hiding behind mist and smoke is the calling of the rats that scurry in the dark.  But he can say that the man has a strange affinity for a most strange branch of science.  Magic, some of the mercenaries not of the League call it as they whisper about the monstrosities Crane has wrought.  It may be magic, just as it may be science, Bane does not care as long as it achieves his goals.

Even so, he sends Barsad to Crane as a precaution.  He does not believe Crane above attempting to control him with his gas and Barsad has previously proven his immunity to neurotoxins of all but the most toxic kinds.

It is only when Barsad returns, bearing a small vial full of red liquid and a hastily scribbled set of instructions, that Bane deigns to tell Talia of the good news.  She hugs him and claps her hands, reminding Bane of the child she once was, the child who looked to the sky and only thought to fly.  She requests details about his Robin and he tells her stories of his beauty and his kindness and of the way he laughs.

Her eyes soften, the years of being Talia Al Ghul, daughter of Ra’s Al Ghul, sloughing away for a moment, and she says, “You will love and protect him with the ferocity of the thousand suns and he will come to love you, too.”

She presses a kiss to each of his closed eyes and whispers a prayer for fortune in love against his forehead before she stands.  Nearly instantly, she is once again Talia Al Ghul, with fire burning in her eyes and pride in every inch of her being.

Bane allows himself one last time to mourn the loss of the child who once told him that she would fly some day before he buries her in his heart.  She is his commander now and he has found someone new to love.

***

He informs his inner circle of his decision next.

Aside from Marsellus, who is put out that he will no longer be the youngest, they take it all in stride.  It is not until he leaves that they break into chatter, discussing what sort of person this Robin John Blake is.

Barsad regales him with tales after, of how Kit is expecting a willowy, ethereal sort of blonde and how Ro is expecting someone of Bane’s height so that she can fight with him.  He tells Bane how Anjou’s guess is perhaps most on the mark, in appearance anyway.

Bane smiles when Barsad tells him of how his circle is divided between assuming Robin will be a wilting, delicate flower or a hellcat to be reckoned with.

“They must learn to manage their expectations when they see he is neither,” Bane rumbles approvingly.

Barsad smirks and Bane knows then that Barsad has fed into the tales, not directly perhaps, but with little nods and evasive answers at precisely the right moments.  His inner circle is used to the way Barsad lies by not truly lying and they only use it to spin taller fantasies that Barsad continues to relay to Bane.

Yes, Bane thinks, his little bird will have a very warm family here, one which tells fantastical stories and does not care when their expectations of a person are shattered.

***

His Robin grabs the knife from the table and directs it at him.  Bane is proud to see that his arm does not falter, even as he moves away from Bane’s advance.

“I’ll use this, don’t think I fucking won’t.”

Bane believes him, but he is unhurried in his approach.  His little bird is skilled in many ways, but close combat with a large opponent is not one.

Robin...John…Blake.  It is good of you to join me.”

Delight fills him when his little bird spits out an empty threat regarding Bane’s mercenaries.  It confirms that he has chosen correctly, that he has chosen someone who will fight because they have something to protect even if they cannot win.  His swell of affection must show in his eyes because his Robin looks confused.  He takes another step forward and his little bird startles, stumbling back another step.

“I have no wish to hurt you,” Bane says, “If you would comply.”

“Like hell I’m gonna buy that,” Robin growls, “You sent some of my friends out to Crane’s kangaroo court and they’re dead.  Bloated and bleeding in the morgue or ice cubes under the bridge.  Why the hell shouldn’t I be the same?”

It seems that, somehow, in the midst of everything, Bane has forgotten of his little bird’s affiliation with the Gotham police.  It seems that Robin will not listen to his words, so force, for the moment, it is.

It takes very little to send his Robin sprawling onto the futon and Bane makes a note to get the others in his circle, Barsad is oft too busy, to train him.  It will not do to have a lover who cannot defend himself.  He knows that his men, the men of the League will not say anything, for many of them have lovers at home who they must protect, but the others, mercenaries that he has gathered through their travels across the continents and the men from Blackgate, will not take well to what they presume to be little more than a bed warmer.

“Breathe, habibi,” He murmurs.  He cannot soothe with his voice, the mask has stolen this from him.  He can only provide an anchor for his little bird.

Robin opens his mouth, likely to say something else disparaging about Bane, when the gas hits him.  Bane can see the way his Robin’s face changes.  His pupils dilate and he’s sucking in air like there will never be enough.

He writhes beneath Bane and when his clothed erection brushes up against Bane’s thigh, the sound he makes is the most beautiful thing Bane has ever heard.  Bane nearly gives up on restraint then and there, but he makes himself wait until his Robin is begging and his bid for escape has changed to hands skittering for something to hold.  When he releases Robin’s hands, they fly up to grasp at his shoulders.  Bane leans in to press his mask to the underside of Robin’s jaw, relishing the way it makes the young man cry out and arch.

He pulls away to pet a hand down a lean thigh and Robin almost rips his clothing in his haste to remove it.  Bane pushes his thumb against Robin’s lips; the only kiss he knows, for the mask stole this from him, too.  He is pleasantly surprised when Robin eagerly opens his mouth to lick and suck at the appendage.

“Habibi,” He breathes out and Robin shudders, his eyes slipping closed and his body going loose and pliant.

Bane carefully pushes Robin back down onto the futon before pressing his mask against his chest and trailing his way down, stopping just before Robin’s dripping erection.  His Robin pushes up in frustration and a fond smile crosses Bane’s face.  So eager and impatient his little one is, but it matters not, because there will be time later for Bane to show his little bird the pleasures of waiting.

“Little bird,” He whispers, “You will look beautiful when you are round with child.”

Robin responds by running his mouth along the vertical length of Bane’s mask and down his cheek before murmuring affirmation in his ear.  His little bird has just enough presence of mind to gasp out that he’s never been with a man while Bane slowly presses one slick finger into his body.

“You give me a rare gift, habibi,” He says reverently and lets his thumb rub soothing circles against Robin’s flank.

“A rare gift, indeed,” He murmurs.

***

Barsad explains later, when Robin is sleeping, how he came to be called Bartholomew.  He tells of how introduced himself to the children as Bartholomew, which prompted a scattering of realization in the children that they never actually knew his name.  Their excitement called his Robin out of the building to investigate.

“It was very easy to take him out and to convince the children that it was merely a game we were playing,” Barsad says, “It was nearly too easy to convince them of this.”

He sounds mournful of this fact and Bane knows that, if it were up to Barsad, he would teach them all to be liars with silver tongues able to spot an untruth from a mile away.  Barsad does perk up when Bane mentions that there will soon be a child for him to teach the gift of telling tales.

Bane leaves so that Barsad can clean his guns and goes to check on his Robin.  An empty room greets him, the window open and the Barsad’s extra pants missing.  Worry seizes him and he moves over to the window.  There is a pipe along one side of it that leads to the ground and it is solid when Bane tests it.  The worry abates and is replaced by a thought of how clever his little bird is and how merry of a chase this will be, for it will be a chase that will end.  Whether by threat or by choice, Bane will bring his Robin home.

***

The slant of the sun coming in through John’s broken window bathes the man in a soft glow and Bane is momentarily struck with the urge to covet his Robin.  But then Mrs. Fon’s words filter through and he returns to his cooking.  The kitchen is quiet for a long moment after that.  There’s a deep intake of breath from his right and Bane stills himself in preparation.

“We need to talk.”

Bane looks up at John, who’s staring back with determination painted across his features.

“Very well, Robin,” Bane tilts his head in acknowledgement, “But you must eat first.”

He slides the pan out of the fire and tips the bacon in it onto a clean plate.  Bane pushes the pan back into the fire before cracking several eggs into it.  The weight of his Robin’s eyes is much heavier now than it has ever been, as if he were trying to see into Bane’s very soul.  It does not unnerve him, for he has been the target of many scrutinizing gazes in the past, but he is surprised to find that he is anxious for the talk to come.  He has not yet forgotten that his Robin is here at his side because of threats to the children he protects.

Bane slides the eggs onto a plate that he deems relatively clean and sets it on the dining table, which is the only thing left unpacked.

“Eat,” He says, “And then we will talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi to me on tumblrrrr @ilokheimsins.
> 
> Fair warning, I'm on a bit of a hartwin binge rn.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me @ ilokheimsins.tumblr! All plot bunnies and requests are welcome.


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